


Double-Crossed

by beeeinyourbonnet



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV), The World Is Not Enough (1999)
Genre: Action, Crossover, F/M, role reversal renbelle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2014-01-22
Packaged: 2017-12-23 22:50:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 29,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/932010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beeeinyourbonnet/pseuds/beeeinyourbonnet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Belle's willing to go down with her ship when she kidnaps Renard, but he's not willing to go down, too. When things start to look suspicious, Belle realizes that she might be in a little over her head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So none of the warnings above apply to this fic, but there is talk about violence against women/abuse/trafficking. 
> 
> ENJOY MY BLOOD, SWEAT, AND TEARS <3

The new waitress got his order right on the first try. Renard did not like change, and he did not appreciate his diner changing his waitress on him until she brought him his breakfast and coffee to his exact specifications without having written anything down. She was pretty, too, even in her carrot colored uniform dress, with a mass of curly auburn hair and plump lips. He may have been faithfully engaged, but he wasn’t blind.

“More coffee?”

He looked up from his runny eggs, cooked better today than they had ever been before, and he wouldn’t have been surprised if she had supervised preparation of his breakfast. Her eyes were bright blue, and her smiling lips an inviting coral.

“Please.” He was tired today, his limbs feeling like he’d just had surgery on them, and he needed all the caffeine he could get. Maybe Elektra’s absence from their penthouse this week was taking its toll.

“Yes, sir.”

She smiled at him again before walking away. Someone must have told her that he was Victor Zokas to make her put in such an effort at customer service. She must have known he had a limitless fortune, and a mean streak a mile wide. He saw through her kind smiles and attention—she’d be getting no extra tip money out of him.

He lifted his hand to dip a corner of his toast into his egg, but paused when the table started to spin. Maybe he’d been getting less sleep than he’d thought. Closing his eyes, he counted to ten and then tried again. Another dizzy spell hit a few minutes later, while he was trying to drink his coffee.

“Are you all right?”

He jumped, not realizing his waitress was there, knocking his fork to the ground.

“I am fine. Get me another fork.”

She nodded, forehead creased with concern. “Yes, of course.”

When she returned with clean silverware, he had abandoned his breakfast in favor of pressing his forehead to his palm.

“Sir?”

“Check. Give me the check.”

He would call in sick to work, maybe go in later that afternoon. Maybe he would call Elektra, see how her trip to Spain was going. If he made it home early enough, he should be able to catch her before she went out for the afternoon.

“Here you go. Can I get you some water or something?”

He thrust a twenty at her before she could even put the check down, knowing that it was almost an eighty percent tip. “No. Keep the change.”

He stood then, opening his eyes because he had to, and his waitress was watching him like she was considering touching him, and he couldn’t have that. His old waitress had never tried to touch him before. He gripped his chair so he wouldn’t fall over, feeling the whole room spin, and he needed to get his balance under control so that he could call his town car to come pick him up.

“Sir, let me help—”

“Get away,” he growled, but when her arm came around his side, he didn’t pull away. Together, they walked to the door.

“I’m going to call 9-1-1, okay?” she said.

“No, I need my car. My car is coming.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket, flipping through the screens without seeing where it was going.

“I’m going to stay outside with you, then. Okay? Can you hear me?”

He turned to look at her, and she was still pretty even in spinning double vision. Elektra would shoot him if she thought that he thought his waitress was this pretty.

“Okay.”

“Good.” She smiled again, getting a better grip on his waist, and the last thing he remembered after that was a black town car pulling up.


	2. Chapter 1

Belle flipped through the binder, bursting with photos, receipts, bank statements, phone transcripts, lists of contacts and accomplices, and known addresses. Victor Zokas’ face was plastered all over it, photographed going in and out of buildings, overseeing his clubs, exchanging money with burly men, carrying illegal guns. The actual Victor Zokas was asleep on a cot, hands tied together in case he woke up while Belle wasn’t paying attention, and she had to keep looking through the folder or she’d lose her resolve.

The back section concerned her most. The first half of the papers were just records, meaningless numbers that could have been fudged by anyone, but the back held photos of the lives he’d ruined, the women he’d broken. The first showed a malnourished woman who couldn’t have been older than Belle’s twenty-six years, huddled in a corner in a negligee, cuts all over her cheeks. The next was a girl about sixteen, wearing nothing but underwear with a male fist clenched around her bruised arm. There were more like them, and then more explicit ones—girls in beds with men, girls being slapped, girls being threatened at knife point.

There was a knock on the door and Belle jumped, upsetting the binder. “Coming!” she whispered, setting it on her chair. She hoped it was someone with food, because the Rohypnol she’d given Victor at the restaurant was going to wear off soon, and she wasn’t going to starve him.

It was not food. Instead, her boss, the CEO of the Mary Gordon Foundation, stood on the other side of the door, leaning against it in his tan blazer like a model waiting to be photographed, and Belle wished she’d thought to change out of her uniform.

“Hi, Sergei.” She stepped aside to let him walk through, and he brushed her arm with his.

He surveyed the room, his light brown gaze landing on Victor Zokas’ sleeping form. “Belle, I can’t believe you did this so well. You have a gift.”

She stepped up next to him, frowning at Victor. “For kidnapping?”

His hand came to rest on her shoulder, a gold ring prominent on his little finger. “For strategizing. I couldn’t have planned it better myself.”

“Are you sure we did the right thing?” She chewed her lip, leaning into his side when his hand came to rest between her shoulder blades, rubbing at the muscles in her neck. She had been second guessing herself for weeks, but Sergei was always sure when it came to the decisions like this.

“Belle, you almost single-handedly apprehended one of the most dangerous human traffickers. Once you get him to confess, you’ll be a hero. You won’t even need to work for us anymore, you’ll have already saved thousands of lives.”

She let out a humorless chuckle, resting her head on his shoulder when his hand moved up to stroke her hair. It was more likely that she’d go to jail for her vigilante justice, but her freedom was a small price to pay if it meant that all the women would go free.

“You’re right. We’re making the world safer.”

He squeezed her to him before letting go, walking around to examine Victor’s unconscious form. “You remember what we talked about, yes?”

“Of course.” She clasped her hands in front of her. “Don’t give him my name, don’t tell him who we are. Nothing that he can use against us.”

Sergei nodded once, finishing his circuit of the cot before coming to stand in front of Belle.

“What name did you choose?”

She swallowed, the full force of his gaze while she looked so ridiculous making her want to disappear. “Lacey. Lacey Gold.”

“Good.” His gaze raked over her, corner of his mouth tilted up, and she swallowed the blush threatening to creep along her cheeks. “How long has he been out?”

“About five hours now. I had to give him a heavy dose because he’s so—bulky.” Victor Zokas wasn’t a tall man, but pictures of him were deceptive. Up close, she’d been able to see his arms and chest rippling with muscles, and had had to adjust the plan accordingly.

“He is. Well, call me if anything changes?”

“Of course.” She nodded, clasping her hands. “Are you going to work on the case?”

“Of course.”

They looked at each other for a few seconds, and then Sergei came over and clapped a hand onto her shoulder, like they were frat brothers about to play football together.

“I’m proud of your drive, Belle.”

“Thank you, Sergei. I’m going to change now, if that’s all right?” She jabbed her thumb toward a closet, hoping there were clothes in it.

“Right. Of course. Keep me posted.”

She nodded. “Yes. I will.”

He nodded at her once more before leaving, and Belle looked over at Victor Zokas.

“I hope to God you heard none of that,” she muttered, heading for the closet.

 

* * *

 

Belle sat in a silent room for five hours before Victor woke up. There were sweatpants and t-shirts in the closet, so she’d switched out her ugly uniform for the smallest pair she could find, and was curled up in a chair next to his cot watching a movie on the tiny television.

Victor groaned, and Belle looked over. He was shifting around, shaking off the last effects of the Rohypnol, and she had about five seconds to gather her courage before his eyes snapped open.

“Where am I?” His voice sounded like he hadn’t spoken in days, and was heavy with the traces of a Russian accent. Belle longed to pour him a glass of water, but she had to seem firm—he could have water once she’d spoken her piece.

“Good evening, Mr. Zokas.” What the hell was she supposed to say?

“Who are you? What the fuck is going on here?” He reached up to rub his eyes, pausing when he found his wrists bound in one of her silk scarves. He blinked up at her, face drawn. “Did you roofie me?”

“What? No, that’s not—”

“Is this silk?” He peered at the scarf, and Belle felt heat rising in her cheeks.

“I didn’t want—”

“Is this a sex thing or something?” He looked up at her, assessing her like an x-ray.

“It’s funny you should say that, because—”

“Oh god, you are not one of those crazy women who wants to have a millionaire’s baby, are you? You did not tie me up and rape me with a cattle prod?” He twisted around, like he was trying to assess the state of his backside, and Belle made a noise like a tea kettle.

“Would you listen to me?”

“You can have ten seconds of my time, but that is it.”

Belle spluttered. “Mr. Zokas, I don’t think you understand the seriousness of the situation—”

“Listen, princess, if you know who I am, then you know who I am, and you know that one of my many loyal employees will be here any minute now.” 

“Oh, really?” Belle folded her arms. “Do you know how long you’ve been out?”

“An hour? Two?” He shrugged.

“Ten.”

They watched each other, and then Victor shrugged. “Not a problem.”

“Also, a cattle prod?”

He chuckled, looking down at his bound hands. Belle’s gaze followed, but it wasn’t until he leapt at her that she realized he’d gotten himself free and was wielding the scarf clutched between both of his hands. She ducked half a second before it was too late, avoiding being blindfolded or strangled by her prisoner, and kicked out hard toward the sides of his knees. He went down sideways with a choked roar—a feat she probably wouldn’t have managed had all the drugs been out of his system. When he tried to get up, she pounced on him like a giant cat, knocking the wind out of him by planting her knee in his groin.

“Look, Mr. Zokas.” She snatched the scarf away from him and threw it across the room, before taking his hands and twining their fingers together like lovers while he wheezed beneath her. “We can do this the easy way or we can do this the hard way.”

“Is this the easy way or the hard way?”

“This is the medium way.”

“Describe my options.”

She settled against him, hoping that her own weight would be enough to keep him there until she figured out how to restrain him. “Well, the easy way is that you sit nicely on the cot and tell me what I want to know, and then I can release you.”

“And the hard way?”

“I scream my head off until the guards outside come running in and restrain you forcefully, and then turn you over to my boss instead.”

“And who is your boss?” His hands flexed under hers, but he seemed to have settled against the floor. Still, Belle wasn’t about to let her guard down.

“No one of your concern.”

“Right. Of course not.” He looked smug, like he was privy to information she wasn’t. “And what’s your name?”

She hesitated a fraction of a second too long before blurting out, “Lacey.”

“No it isn’t.”

“Yes it is.”

He shook his head. “No.”

“Yes.” She tried to bare her teeth, but was afraid of letting out a noise with her lie, as she was prone to do when not telling the truth.

“Fine. I will call you Lacey, if that is what you want. I am Renard.”

She frowned. “What? No, I know your name, you don’t need a fake one.”

“It is not fake. One of my French clients gave me the nickname, because I am a fox.”

“A fox? Really?”

“I am a sly businessman. I have also been told that I am dangerously attractive.” He wiggled his eyebrows, and Belle made a fizzy sound through her nose.

“Whoever told you that lied.” She felt mean saying it—he wasn’t awful—but he didn’t seem upset. If anything, he looked amused—like a shark preparing to bat around its prey.

“You’ve never done this before, have you?”

“Done what?”

“Tell me.” He shifted beneath her, and it felt like he was just trying to get comfortable, but Belle kept herself on her guard just in case. “When do you plan on getting off of me?”

Belle swallowed. “When I figure out how to restrain you. What haven’t I done before?”

“Kidnapped a man. Restrained him. Taken him against his will.”

She swallowed again, feeling like her mouth was holding more saliva than it was meant to. “No.”

“You are not very good at it.”

“Good. I wouldn’t want to be good at kidnapping, unlike some people. Also, might I remind you that you had no idea this was happening until you woke up in a strange room?”

“Perhaps you are good at planning.” He shrugged, and she tightened her grip on his arms. “I do not know. What is it you have against me, Lacey? Or did your boss not tell you why you took me?”

“You’ve ruined so many lives,” she said, jaw tight. “All I want you to do is admit it.”

He narrowed his eyes like he wasn’t sure what she was getting at, but Belle narrowed hers right back. She wouldn’t be bullied just because he had an international network of criminals and sociopaths ready to do his bidding.

“How about this—instead, I will help you kidnap me, yes? First, you will have to make sure I don’t move. You—”

“No, Mr. Zokas—”

“Renard. And I wasn’t finished, Lacey. Do not be so rude.”

She gritted her teeth together, unable to not let his jibe get to her. “Fine. What were you saying?”

“That is better. Now, you are doing a good job of restraining me right now, but there are a few problems with this method.”

“Oh?” She knew there were problems, and could only hope that he didn’t know how to fix any of them.

“First, it restrains you as well, and you are our only contact to the outside, so you cannot keep me like this for long, or we will starve, among other things. Second, the only reason you have been able to detain me is because there are still drugs making me sluggish. Third, it is still easy to get out.” He stroked her hand with the tip his finger and she flinched, letting go of him without thinking.

Then, somehow, she was on her back, pinned beneath Renard.

“You see?” he said, the playful note in his voice vanishing with his grin. “Easy.”

“Maybe that wasn’t the only trick up my sleeve.” She was pinned, though, and feeling like she was running out of options.

“I am sure you have plenty of tricks, but none of them are going to keep me here.” He leaned closer to her face, and his breath reeked from his drugged sleep. She forced herself not to grimace, or he would breathe on her more. “Good day, Lacey. Perhaps someday, we will meet again under better circumstances.”

Her best bet now was to keep him talking, and that was one of Belle’s top skills. “Maybe I can pour your coffee again.”

He narrowed his eyes, looking at her face. “Yes, I knew I recognized you. You were the worst waitress I have ever had.”

“Well, that’s just not true. You put me through the ringer and I came out on top, you can’t tell me that you weren’t at least a little impressed.”

“Considering you were only doing it to kidnap me, you can consider me not impressed.”

“That’s not true!” If Sergei saw her now, getting offended and worked up over this man’s attempts at getting under her skin, he would never trust her with anything important again.

He looked at her, studying the hard line of her jaw, the crease in her forehead, the slight wetness sparkling in her eyes, and his lip curled. “No, you felt bad, didn’t you? You were starting to get cold feet. You actually did want to help me. If I had accepted help, would you have called the police?”

“I—”

“Do not bother with an answer. I would not want you to embarrass yourself.” Without warning, he stopped bracing himself, falling on her hard enough to knock some wind out of her, and then, while she was gasping, he rolled off and stood up. She scrambled to roll over, still wheezing to get her breath back.

“I will see myself out.” He strode to the door, plucking her scarf off the floor and winding it taut between his wrists.

Belle was used to dealing with bigger men, and had had her share of altercations with the lingering abusers of some of the women she helped, but none had ever been as smart as Renard. Still—he was just a shark in a sea of tinier, violent fish, and she wasn’t afraid to punch a shark in the face if it came down to it.

“Where are you going?” she asked, scrambling to her feet.

“I thought I would go for a stroll.”

“Not on my watch.” It felt ridiculous to say it, but the rush of adrenaline she got from feeling like an action star helped her take a running leap onto his back, tightening her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck. He snarled, stumbling backwards, but continued trying for the door, tugging at her arms.

“You are fucking crazy, did you know that?” he choked out, and Belle tightened her grip. The sleeper hold was something she recommended to any of the women confident and agile enough to attempt it, and she considered herself fairly proficient in it.

“Maybe. But you’re going to be asleep in about half a minute, so I suggest walking back to the cot right now.”

“Fuck you.”

He stumbled toward the door, clawing at her arms, but Belle was nothing if not persistent, even when he stopped trying to open the door to twist around and slam her against it. She tucked her head next to his to protect it, curled around him like a squid, and he slammed her again. There would be bruises in the morning, but it was worth it.

“Get off of me!”

“No!” She considered biting him wherever she could reach, but didn’t want to be distracted from squeezing him to sleep, so she just clung to his back.

The only thing that gave her pause was him wrenching the door open and stumbling into the hallway. It was empty, which was good, but Belle was going to have to find a way to fix this.

“You did—not—lock the—” He wheezed. “—door?”

“Don’t need to.” She held on for her life, praying that Sergei was nowhere nearby to see this. “You’re not escaping.”

“Yes—” He fell to his knees, gasping for breath, and Belle felt a twinge somewhere in her chest. “I—” He took one more shuddering gulp of air, and then collapsed forward. Belle let go of him and clambered off, checking to make sure that he had started breathing again, and almost crying with relief when she felt hot breath on the finger under his nose.

“All right, you,” she said, flipping him over to drag him back to the cot. “Let’s try this again.”


	3. Chapter 2

Sergei’s voice on the other end of the line reminded Belle that there were cameras all over the private office building.

“What was going on earlier? Is everything all right?”

She sank into her chair, blanket to her chin and phone clutched to her ear, knowing she was an idiot for letting that happen. “It’s fine. We were just—having an altercation.”

“Do you need me to subdue him?”

“Oh, no, of course not. He’s fine. Sleeping it off.” She peeked over her knees at unconscious Renard, hands bound by the scarf and a loop of rope tethering his calf to the cot leg. She wouldn’t make the mistake of letting him go free again, even if the office building was almost empty.

“I’ve sent someone to lock the door.”

“Good. Could you send a pair of handcuffs as well?”

“I thought you had handcuffs?”

“No, I—” Over on the bed, Renard groaned. “—oh, I have to go.”

“I will send cuffs.”

She hung up, watching Renard grunt his way to consciousness again. Despite what she’d told him earlier, he wasn’t too bad to look at—his hair was buzzed too short for her tastes, his face was sort of sunken in, and his nose looked like it had been broken a few times in his youth, but he had plenty of muscle definition on his small, wiry frame, and she liked that.  

This time, since she’d had to choke him, she had already poured him a cup of water—plastic, in case he decided to throw it.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty.”

He groaned again, wiping his eyes with his bound hands. “You keep using—what?” He opened his eyes and looked down at his leg, tugging at it to no avail. “You know I can just untie this, right?”

“That’s okay, it’s temporary. There’s water, by the way.”

“Is it poisoned?” He took hold of the edge of the scarf with his teeth and tugged, letting it fall away. Belle watched, prepared to leap out and get him if necessary, but all he did was reach for the cup.

“No. I don’t want to kill you.”

“Why am I here, then?”

She waited until he had finished chugging water, emptying the cup with a smack of his lips. “If I come sit with you to explain, do you promise not to attack me?”

He looked at her over the cup rim. “Do you trust me?”

“No.” She shook her head. “But I’m willing to try.”

A knock sounded, and they both looked up. Belle was afraid to turn her back on Renard, but if it was the handcuffs, then it would be worth it—which it was, as well as the suitcase of clothes she’d packed yesterday and forgotten to bring in, and she stowed that in the closet.

“Handcuffs?” Renard said, watching her walk back over. “You can trust me.”

On her way to the bed, she grabbed the binder of his crimes, then perched on the edge next to him.

“What is that?”

“The reason I took you.” She propped the binder on a knee and opened it up to the first page. He shifted so that he was sitting next to her, peering over into her lap. His name was printed across the top in blocky letters, with his birthday and address underneath.

“You did your homework, I see.”

“Yes. You look good for thirty-nine, by the way.”

“I try.”

She shook off the tiny smile that tried to make its way onto her face—she could be nice and polite, but she couldn’t get along with him.

“This book is filled with everything you’ve done that we could find evidence on,” Belle said, flipping past a few pages. “Including pictures.”

“Okay, wait, I think I am starting to understand.” He rolled around a bit, unable to move much because of his tethered leg, but managed to lean on her from behind, pressing his cheek to her shoulder so that he could see the book. “You are from the Coalition to Stop Gun Violence, and you want me to halt manufacturing on my guns.”

“What?” She wrinkled her nose. “No. I’m talking about your crimes—what are you talking about?”

“Look.” He shifted around again, squashing his face against her so that he could look up. “It is true that sometimes, I acquire strange and foreign items that, as a businessman, I see value in.”

“What? ‘Strange and foreign items?’” She stood, yanking herself away from him so that he would fall on his face into the cot. “That is disgusting, _you_ are disgusting.” She brushed her shoulder off, hugging the binder to her chest.

Renard struggled to sit up, leg dangling over the side, and with a growling sigh he lunged for the rope keeping him there. “You know, princess, you are starting to piss me off.”

“Don’t degrade me, too.” She stalked over to the closet where she’d stuffed her purse and everything that had been in his pockets, and dug out a can of pepper spray. “And don’t even try to escape.”

“What are you talking about? Tell me what it is you hate me for. Have we met? Did I do something to you? Did I bankrupt your father? Lover? This has to be some sort of revenge quest because, for fuck’s sake, I do not understand why you are so angry when you are the one who has abducted me.”

His eyes were hard, and his chest heaved, but his gaze on her was steady.

“Here.” She stalked over and dropped the binder on his lap, his wince of pain going a long way to ease her ire. He growled, but opened it up to flip through it.

“All right. So you have me selling guns, but that was not your problem, so what am I looking at? Who are these women?”

“I can’t believe you don’t even know.” She stomped over, snatching the binder out of his hands. The edge slid along his palm, and he hissed.

“Did it cut you?” She was torn between reminding herself that he was a slug who thought of the women he traded as profitable items, and wanting to fuss over the injury she’d inflicted.

“It is fine.”

“Let me see.”

She sat next to him again, yanking his arm hard enough that he winced, and then yanked it back.

“No, whatever it is you are doing, stop, and stop talking in circles. Tell me why I am here, or I will make this difficult for you.”

Outright accusing him felt like the wrong course of action, but Belle wanted it out in the open as well. Perhaps, if she got him talking about it, he would give something away, and that would be the final push Sergei needed to solidify his case against him.

She took a deep breath and turned to face him. “We know that you’re the leader of an international human trafficking ring that has been operating for years.”

He let out a barking laugh that only subsided when he realized that Belle was stoic.

“You are serious?”

“Why would I joke about something like this?”

“Why would you think something like that?”

She waved the binder. “This is full of evidence!”

“Let me see it again.”

“You’re not going to destroy it, are you?”

He rolled his eyes. “If you are worried, open it up for me.”

Not trusting him was not the way to go about gaining his trust in return, so she handed him the binder again. He flipped through it, taking the time to study the documents instead of the pictures.

“These are all taken out of context.” He turned a page, to a picture of him leaving the modeling agency that was known to be a recruitment ground, and which had been abandoned before the authorities could break it up. “And this is fake.”

“No, it’s not.” She leaned closer. “Look, there are no lines around you. You can always tell with edits.”

“If it is a skilled edit, and you are not an editor yourself, then you probably cannot tell.”

“I don’t know, it looks seamless.” She leaned in and squinted. She could see nothing out of the ordinary that would indicate that Renard had been put there. “What about the other stuff? Why were you at this bar that is a known cover for a brothel?” It wasn’t in the U.S., so they had no way to do anything about it, but Sergei knew of it and often spoke about the way it damaged the women that came to them.

“Because I needed a drink.” He pointed to himself in the photo, to the glass in his hand. “One of my clients has his office around the corner. After selling to him, I go there.”

“So, if you’re not a sex trafficker, what do you do for a living?” Her dossier said that he was in the stock trade, but maybe she could trip him up.

“I am an arms dealer, I own three casinos overseas, and deal in stocks on Wall Street.”

He met her eyes and held them, unblinking, until she looked back down at the pictures. Either he was a skilled liar, or Sergei had been duped.

“How many casinos?”

“Three.”

“And you also do what?” She looked back up at him, and instead of looking frightened or bored or annoyed, he looked like he had when he’d realized she had no idea what she was doing. She swallowed, refusing to let herself be spooked. She wasn’t a child.

“You can ask me to repeat it however many times you like, princess, my story is not going to change, because it is the truth.”

“Could you stop calling me ‘princess?’”

“Why? Lacey does not suit you at all.”

“Well, it’s my name, so—”

“No, it isn’t, and do you know how I know?”

She knew she was the worst liar, but she had a difficult time saying no to questions that started with ‘do you want to know,’ so she nodded.

“You rub your ring finger.”

“What?” She looked down at her hand, where her right hand was already drifting toward her left, and she clenched her fists. “No—I—do I?”

“You started when I wouldn’t let you finish talking, and then you did it again when you told me your name.” He shrugged. “It was not hard to connect.”

“Do you have any nervous tics?” She drew her leg up onto the cot, tucking it underneath her so she could face him.

“Why would I tell you that?”

“Well, because then I’ll know if you’re lying or not.”

“Let me help you.” He reached for her hand, and she yanked it back.

“What are you doing?”

“I am teaching you how to detect lies, or do you want to continue being fooled into doing other people’s dirty work?”

Still hesitant, she inched her hand toward him. “What are you talking about?”

“You clearly have no idea what’s going on.” He picked her hand up, tucking back her pinky and ring fingers. “Someone convinced you with these photos that you should compromise your integrity and abduct me.”

“What are you doing?”

“Showing you how to take my pulse.”

Belle snorted, yanking her hand out of his, and he looked up to purse his lips at her.

“Really? Do you find me that repulsive?”

“No,” she said, forgetting for the moment that she was supposed to find him despicable. “But I know how to take a pulse.” She took his arm, pressing her fingers just below the juncture of his thumb and wrist.

“Well, you just know everything, don’t you, princess?”

“Yes.”

It was easy to forget why he was there when they were sharing knowing grins like old friends, but she cleared her throat and glanced down, trying not to note the way his gaze lingered, as though he was researching the way she hung her head.

“So now what?” she asked.

“I thought you knew everything.”

“Well, I can’t read your mind. Why am I taking your pulse? Everything feels normal. No lasting damage from me kicking your ass.”

“Oh, you are so hilarious.” He reached for her other hand, flipping it over and pressing his fingers to her wrist. “Ask me something.”

“Like what?”

“Anything.” He shrugged. “Ask me what my job is.”

“Fine.” She shifted around, settling her hand on his knee so that she wouldn’t have to hold it up, and he returned the gesture. “What’s your job?”

“I am an arms dealer, casino owner, and stock trader. What is your job?”

“I’m—wait.” She narrowed her eyes, and he laughed through his nose.

“It was worth a try. Is whatever you do now what you have always wanted to do?”

Belle considered the question. She loved her job, it was true, but it had never been her plan when she was younger. “No. I wanted to do something with books. But I like my job, except this part’s a bit strange. What’s your favorite color?”

He considered it, frowning, and Belle felt his pulse speed up.

“Really? Are you really getting worked up over a color?”

He blinked, looking down at their hands, and then back up at her with his face twisted. “I wasn’t expecting it, and no one has ever asked me that before.”

“Okay, here’s an easier question.” She shifted on her leg so that she could stare him down. “Are you a human trafficker?”

“No.”

“Have you ever sold a human?”

“No.”

“Have you ever bought a human?”

“Red.”

“What?”

His pulse sped again, and he looked frustrated, like he was searching for a word in another language, but couldn’t find it. “Red—it is my favorite color.”

“Mine’s blue,” she said, determined not to find it endearing that he was trying so hard for her simplest question. “But I like red a lot, too.”

“Who gave you the binder?” His heart rate was starting to come back down, but he would no longer look at her.

“My boss. Renard, we have to look at each other—a common trait of lying is dilated pupils.”

He looked up at her, inclining his head without breaking eye contact. “That is true. Who gave you the binder?”

“My boss. Have you ever bought a human?”

“No. How—”

“Have you ever paid for a night with a prostitute?”

“Yes, and it is my turn—”

“You have?” Belle couldn’t explain why her stomach felt like it was burning from the inside out. Renard looked down at her wrist, and then up at her face.

“What is wrong? Are you jealous of a prostitute?”

She almost hit him, but it was too difficult with their arms tangled together, so she just scowled. “No. I just thought—I mean, you almost had me convinced that you were innocent and that my boss made some sort of error, and I can’t believe I doubted him—”

“Princess—stop talking, your heart is going crazy—look. Buying a prostitute does not make me a sex trafficker. It does not mean that I am secretly the coordinator of an international crime ring.”

Belle looked up at him, reminding herself that there were plenty of women who chose sexual careers. “Tell me about it.”

“Tell you about it?”

She should have been frightened by the innocent look crossing his features—she hadn’t even known he could look innocent. “Yes.”

“Well, first, I put on a condom—”

“Not that part!” She thrust her knee into his, but froze when he laughed—a real laugh, not something meant to intimidate or undermine her, but a genuine display of amusement.

“All right, all right. It was in Amsterdam in a strip club. She had nipple rings and blue hair.”

“So you bought a Smurf for sex?”

“Are you married?”

Belle froze, mouth halfway open, and swallowed. His gaze strayed toward her hand on his knee, where her fingers were rubbing the place where her ring used to sit. “No. I was engaged until recently.”

“Did he leave you?”

“No.” She rubbed her finger again, and then, as if by accident, his hand was covering hers. He still had his fingers pressed to her wrist, but their palms touched now.

“What happened?”

“Nothing, really.” She shrugged, looking down, and he didn’t make her look back up to check her pupils. “I didn’t love him—I mean, I did love him, but I wasn’t in love with him—and one day I just woke up and said to myself, ‘Belle, you shouldn’t marry someone just for the sake of marrying them. Better to be alone than lying to yourself and your husband for the rest of your life.’ So I left him.”

He pressed his lips together and nodded, looking down at their hands. His eyes flickered toward her, but he didn’t lift his head.

“Belle is a nice name.”

Was her pulse speeding up? His wasn’t, but his breathing had gotten steadier, and now he was focused on her wrist under his fingertips. She wanted to respond—take it back, say that she was lying again, make him promise never to use it—but she didn’t trust herself to say anything intelligent, so she just swallowed and tried to breathe evenly.

“Have you ever been married?”

“I am engaged.”

That hadn’t been in the dossier. Belle stared at him until he frowned, moving his hand off of hers to grip her wrist without touching her palm.

“What is wrong?”

“Nothing.” She shook her head. “I just wasn’t expecting it, that’s all.”

“What, because I am so ugly?”

“You’re not ugly.” This time, she felt her heart beat faster beneath his fingers, and she longed to pull her hand away, but she still had another question. “Renard, can I ask you something without you getting offended?”

“I will think about it.”

“Have you ever been unfaithful?”

“What the hell kind of question is that?” He started to rip his hands away, but she grabbed them, tugging him back.

“Renard, please—I just want to believe you, okay? I don’t think you’re the type of man to cheat on your fiancé, but I just want to know that I’m right.”

He searched her face, brow drawn tight. “So you believe me, then?”

She glanced down at their hands, no longer clutching each other’s wrists but rather each other from when she’d grabbed for him. “I don’t know.”

“I would never betray Elektra. She is the only woman I have ever loved.”

Belle felt her heart tingle with the promise of a good romance story, and she couldn’t help the ridiculous smile that overtook her features at his vehemence. “How long have you been together?”

“Two years. Our wedding is in a month.” He closed his mouth, opened it again, closed it, and looked away.

“What?”

He looked back at her. “Do you want to see a picture? I have one in my wallet.”

“Yes.” She let go of him and unfolded herself from the cot to retrieve it from the closet. “I’d like that.”

 

* * *

 

Sergei passed her a paper bag filled with take-out cartons, mouth not uncurling from its concerned moue as he looked her up and down. They stood alone in the deserted hallway, watched only by the cameras on the wall.

“You are feeding him?”

“Of course I’m feeding him.” She hefted the bag up. “Listen, Sergei, I think we should talk.”

“Is something wrong?” He stepped closer, bracing a hand on the arm she was using to hold her bag. “He’s not hurting you, is he?”

“No!” She shook her head. “It’s just—I think we might have been wrong about him.”

His hand clenched on her arm. “Belle—are you hearing yourself? You have studied the evidence against him.”

“Yes, and it’s all circumstantial. I don’t think we built our case very well, and we’re ruining his life like this.”

“Belle.” His hand was on her cheek before she realized he was moving, tilting her head up to face him. “Do you think I would ask you to do this if I wasn’t one hundred percent certain?”

“I know, I know.” She bit her lip. “I just think that maybe, whoever, tipped you off may have been throwing you for a loop.”

He looked down at her lips, and a half-smile played around one corner of his mouth. “Belle, I love that you are concerned for everyone, but I need you to trust me, okay? I know what I am doing.” He stroked his fingers about an inch down her cheek, stilling his hand again.

She swallowed, keeping her face as still as possible. “I trust you.”

“Good.” He ran his hand through her hair, and then walked off before she could get another word in. Once he was gone, she clutched the bag to her chest, needing a second to breathe and get her heart rate under control.

When she walked in, Renard stalked over and studied her face like he was a doctor and she was covered in mumps.

“Who delivered it?” He took the bag from her, hefting it in one bulky arm.

“My boss.” She stared back at him, aware that her face was pink and unable to do anything about it.

“You like him.”

“What? No.” She brushed past him, keeping her hands apart so that she couldn’t play with her finger, and Renard stalked after her.

“You do. You believe him because you are in love with him.”

“It’s very easy to confuse love and admiration, Renard—”

“Yes, and that is what you are doing.” He set the bag down on the cot, stepping back and folding his arms. “Are you really going to keep an innocent man here because you can not see past your feelings?”

“Look, I’m doing the best I can, okay? I told him that I thought you might be innocent.”

Renard stopped, mouth halfway open, and watched her pull cartons out of the bag. “You did?”

“Yes. Can we eat now?”

They set up all the cartons on the floor, then sat cross-legged against the cot. Sergei had thought to provide plates, but neither of them had eaten in almost an entire day, and both were too busy shoveling lo mein and sesame chicken into their mouths from the carton to use dishes.

“So,” Renard said when they had slowed down, chopsticks poised above the pepper steak. “I think you have slept with your boss.”

She choked on the noodle in her mouth. “What?”

“I knew it. You are not good at hiding things.”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.” She poked at the lo mein, stabbing a water chestnut in half.

“So you have, then?”

She glared sideways at him. “It was once, and I snuck away in the middle of the night.”

“Ashamed?”

“No.” She grabbed a tangle of noodles and shoved it in her mouth, handing the carton to Renard when he stuck his chopsticks toward it.

“How do we sleep, by the way?”

“I’m not sleeping with you,” she said, voice thick with food.

“I did not say you were. I would just like to know what our sleeping arrangements are.”

She finished chewing and swallowed, considering the question. “You sleep on the cot. I’m not sleeping.”

He grunted. “That is ridiculous. You sleep on the cot. I spent the day sleeping, I am not tired.”

“Oh, yes, of course, I’ll just go to sleep and leave you all on your own.” She snorted, shaking her head. “Hand me an egg roll.”

Renard was quiet as he complied, looking around the room. Then, “Cuff me to the chair.”

She turned, cheeks chubby with egg roll. “What?”

“Cuff me to the chair, and tie my legs down. I will not be a threat.”

She looked at him, barely managing to swallow her egg roll before she yawned—as though her mind had taken this as permission to allow itself to be tired. “All right. Thank you. I’ll take a short nap after dinner.”

“No.”

“No?”

He leaned back against the cot, looking up at the tiled ceiling of the office-turned-bedroom. “Sleep as long as you want.”

She didn’t know what to say to that, so she said nothing at all, returning to the carton of chicken, and considering the idea that Sergei might have been wrong.


	4. Chapter 3

Renard stood behind her in the mirror, arms crossed over his chest while he watched her brush powder onto her face.

“Is this really necessary?”

“I feel disgusting.” She made an ‘o’ with her mouth to pull her cheeks taut. “I at least want to look nice.” Since it was an office-turned-bedroom, there was no shower in the attached bathroom, so Belle had made do with a washcloth and some face wipes that she had packed in her overnight bag.

“For what?”

“For me.” She opened her blush, switching out her foundation brush for a cheek brush. “Don’t you ever just feel like looking pretty?” She glanced behind her with a tiny grin.

“Oh, yes, all the time.” Then, he turned his head and gave his armpit a surreptitious sniff. “I could use some deodorant, though.”

“I offered you my washcloth.” She leaned into her makeup bag, digging around for the mascara.

“That is weird.”

“Weirder than sharing deodorant?” She found that tube before she found her mascara, and handed it over her shoulder. He took it from her.

“This, I can clean first.” He reached over her head for the tissue box. “What scent is it?”

“White tea and lavender.”

He wrinkled his nose, but uncapped it and wiped it off anyway. Belle made a mental note to never travel with only one deodorant bottle again.

Then, Renard was pulling his shirt off—a white undershirt that he’d been wearing under his work suit when she took him—and Belle almost poked herself in the eye with her mascara brush. His torso could have been sculpted from marble, and her mind filled with visions of him doing heavy labor that she hadn’t known she found attractive—chopping wood, shoveling snow, mowing the lawn. She couldn’t breathe.

“I smell like a woman.” He sniffed at his armpit again, this time with his arm in the air.

Belle bit her lip, fumbling for her lipstick in the hopes that he would think lip-biting was part of her makeup routine. “Better than a dumpster?”

He shrugged, tapping the deodorant all over his bare chest before wiping off the bottle again, and Belle tried not to let herself get lost in his abs or the self-satisfied tilt to his mouth whenever he caught her staring. This was terrible—he was engaged, and even if he wasn’t, she was still only about seventy-five percent sure of his innocence.

The knock on the door jarred her, and she wrinkled her forehead.

“I’m not expecting anyone.”

He raised his hands, still holding his shirt in one. “I have no idea.”

She frowned, stepping out of the bathroom with her lipstick still in hand. “Can I help you?”

The voice on the other side was muffled and male, but she thought he said something about emptying the trash, and she turned to Renard for his opinion.

“Sounds like a janitor.”

She nodded. “Right. Okay. Could you—” She pressed her lips together. “No one really knows you’re here.”

The look he gave her could have frozen fire, but she stared him down.

“You have a lot of nerve,” he growled.

“I’ll make it up to you someday, I promise.” She reached for his arm and squeezed. “If you’re innocent, just name your price—even if you want me arrested, I swear.”

He pointed to her, finger so close it was almost touching her nose. “We will have this conversation later.” He whirled around, leaving his shirt on the counter, and disappeared into the room. Belle hurried after him, waiting until he was tucked into the space between the chair and the wall before opening the door.

“Just the bathroom garbage,” she said, starting that way and beckoning to him in the hopes that he wouldn’t look around if he had something to focus on.

The door shut and the custodian left his cart in front of it, following her into the bathroom. Then, there was a sound like an angry lion, and she whirled around just in time to see bare-chested Renard fling himself at the janitor, gripping the front of his jacket and using it to hurl him against the bathroom door.

“Renard, stop!” She started forward, and then found herself staring down the front of a silencer attached to a gun held by the janitor. He pulled the trigger just as Belle ducked, and the bullet embedded in the wall. It sounded like a toy pistol.

Renard shouted again, and pressed his elbow into the man’s throat, snatching the gun out of his hand when his fingers convulsed. They were almost the same size, and the janitor threw Renard off seconds later, following as he knocked him to the ground through the doorway. Renard’s head hit the floor, but he didn’t seem to notice, rolling them both over until he was on top, gun abandoned in the bathroom. Belle wanted to do something, but she had no idea what—whose side was this man on?

“Stop!” She tried to leave the bathroom, but tripped over the gun. It slid out, and both men reached for it. The janitor—hit man?—got to it first, pointing it at Belle as soon as his fingers closed around the handle.

“Belle, move!”

She wanted to, she did, but she didn’t want to leave Renard wrestling with a trained killer. **Then** , the man pulled the trigger again, and Belle dived into the bathroom as soon as his finger moved while Renard screamed obscenities about her—then just obscenities in general, and then there were thumps and roars and footsteps and then glass shattering, and everything was quiet.

Belle hardly dared to leave the bathroom, but she couldn’t hide. Taking a deep breath, she walked out into the room. Renard stood by the window, entire body heaving, with the gun pointed out and down.

“Renard?” She crept toward him, stopping when he held a palm out.

“Stay back. He might have another gun.”

She listened, hands clutched in front of her, rubbing her finger raw. She missed having an actual ring there to twist, but this would have to do.

“Do I have to be quiet?”

“No.” He still didn’t turn around, standing at the window like he was there to protect her, gun trained to the ground.

“Was he here to kill me or you?”

“This is just a guess, but I am going to say you, considering you are the one he kept trying to shoot.”

Belle needed to sit, and her legs didn’t want to wait for her to find a chair, so she melted to the floor where she was standing. “What if he was only trying to kill me because I was distracting him from killing you?”

“He would have killed me first, and then killed you for being a witness. No, he wanted you.”

Coming down from the adrenaline rush was worse than a hangover, and Belle couldn’t decide whether she wanted to throw up, nap, or vibrate out of her skin.

“Renard?”

“What?”

“Did he work for you?”

He turned around then, face hard. “Are you serious, Belle?”

“I’m sorry, I just—I’m trying to figure out—” She hadn’t realized she was crying until her vision blurred, and then she pressed a hand over her mouth. Renard cursed, lowering the gun and striding over to her.

“Don’t cry. You are safe.”

“I know, I’m sorry, I just—” She pressed a second hand over the first, shoulders shaking, and she hadn’t even known she wanted to cry.

Renard sat next to her, and after a second, put a sweaty arm around her shoulder. He said nothing when Belle curled into him, and it didn’t matter whether he smelled like day-old man or her own deodorant because she couldn’t breathe through her nose anymore anyway.

“Who do you think he was?”

“I do not know. A hit man for someone.” He shrugged.

“But who? Only a handful of people know we’re here.”

“I could tell you what I think, but you would not be happy.”

She tilted her head to look up at him, and there was no trace of good humor on his face. She knew what he was going to say.

“What do you think?”

“Your boss is not the man you think he is.”

Belle considered this, and what she knew about Sergei, and she had to admit that it seemed plausible, especially in light of recent events. But she’d known Sergei for years, and none of it added up. There had to be a bigger player. What if someone had sent a man to kill him as well?

“There has to be someone who gave him the evidence. He’s spent his life working for the cause—he wouldn’t persecute an innocent man on purpose.”

“Maybe so—but, unless he brings it up, I would not mention this incident to him. Just in case.”

She nodded, snuggling closer to him without thinking about it. “Do you think that man will live?”

“Who cares?”

She pulled away, glaring over at him, and he heaved a sigh.

“Yes, yes, he will probably live. We are only two stories up.”

“Oh, good.” She settled back against him. He was sticky, and engaged to a glamorous heiress, but she didn’t care. He had just saved her life, even though all she’d done was kidnap him.

“Now, about your repayment of me—I do not think you could handle prison.”

“What? I could handle it if I tried.”

“No.” He shook his head. “You’re too delicate.”

“Have you been in jail?”

“Yes, of course.”

“For what?”

He sighed, like she was asking him to explain something complicated, and tucked her more comfortably against him. “I was eighteen, and I robbed a liquor store.”

She couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled up in her throat, and the first laugh that spilled over broke the floodgate, and then Belle was pressing her face into his shoulder while her own shook with mirth.

“It is not that funny. Belle. Belle, what is so funny? Stop laughing, it was not funny.”

“Sorry, sorry, I’m sorry. How should I repay you, then?”

He waited to speak until she had calmed. “I was thinking of firing my maid, and getting one that I do not have to pay. You will fit the bill.”

“A maid?”

“Yes. My original repayment was going to be a year, but then I saved your life, so I think I will have to rethink it.”

“Are you going to make me live in a dungeon?”

He twisted his lips like he was considering it, and then shrugged. “I will think about it—” He cut himself off with a hiss, and Belle looked up, brow furrowed.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes.” He pressed a hand to his forehead, closing his eyes, and Belle struggled to get to her knees so that she could face him.

“I forgot—you hit your head, didn’t you?”

“It is fine.”

“It’s not fine, you’re in pain!” She pulled his hand away, but could see no marks. His back was probably another story, but it seemed that the hit man hadn’t landed any blows. “Renard, you could have a concussion.”

“I do not have a concussion.”

 

* * *

 

Half an hour later, Belle was more certain that Renard had a concussion than she’d been about anything since she’d met him. Once he’d stood up, he’d stumbled around like a drunk until Belle had wrapped an arm around his waist to guide him around, and then they’d barely made it to the bathroom before he was vomiting.

“This is a concussion, Renard,” she said, rubbing his back while he clung to the rim of the toilet.

“It is not.”

“You are wrong. Listen to me, I know what I’m talking about.”

He mumbled something that she decided not to decipher, and then his back lurched again. It was lucky that she had packed a travel-sized mouthwash in her makeup bag.

“I’m sorry that you had to fight off a hit man who concussed you because I kidnapped you,” she said, but all he did was grunt.

She almost threw her phone when it rang. It was hard to remember that a world existed outside of this room with Renard, but ‘SERGEI’ flashed across the screen and she had to answer it.

“Hello?”

“Belle, I need you to come up to my office right now.”

She breathed in relief. Sergei knew something was wrong, and he was going to come to her rescue. Maybe she could convince Renard to stay with her until they cleared his name—or at least until his brain healed. He’d mentioned that his fiancé was in Spain, so he would obviously need someone to care for him.

“I’ll be right there. Are you okay?”

“Yes. Hurry.”

The line cut out, and Belle set her phone on the counter, absently rubbing circles on Renard’s back. Was Sergei lying about being okay to spare her? Maybe he had taken care of his would-be killer as Renard had theirs.

“What did he want?” Renard asked, pressing his forehead to the toilet seat.

“I need to go up to his office. I should probably tie you up, but I swear Renard, if you do anything strenuous while you are concussed—”

“I am not concussed.”

“—I will hunt you down and I will personally concuss you again.”

He grumbled, pulling himself to his feet and flushing the toilet in one clumsy motion. Belle tried to help him to the sink, but he shrugged her off, leaning on the counter instead. He managed to rinse his mouth out, and then she passed him the mouthwash and he gargled.

“Feeling better?”

“Yes. It was just leftover nerves.”

“You have a concussion.”

“Shut up.”

“Being angry won’t make me less right. Also, don’t you dare fall asleep while I’m gone, okay?” She trailed after him when he left the bathroom, wobbling.

“I will not fall asleep, because I am coming with you.”

“What?” She hurried to his side, taking his arm. “No, you aren’t. You’re staying right here.”

“No. I do not trust your boss, and you obviously cannot take care of yourself, so I am coming with you.” He walked like he had a destination, though he was only heading toward the cot.

“You’re not even wearing a shirt, Renard. You’re staying here. Also, I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.” She followed after him, trying to herd him to the chair.

“I am coming with you, and that is final.”

“No, you are staying here if I have to chain you to this chair.”

She nudged him into it with her knees and he glared up at her, baring his teeth. “Fine. How long will this take?”

“Shouldn’t be more than an hour.”

“Okay. You have sixty-minutes. If you are gone for sixty-one, I am coming to find you.”

They stare at each other, Belle with her arms crossed and Renard with his teeth bared, and she sighed. “I’ll leave the door unlocked.”

He frowned, then closed his eyes and pressed his fingers to his forehead. When he opened them again, he wasn’t glaring anymore. “You trust me?”

It was probably a bad idea to answer honestly—and it was probably an even worse idea that her honest answer was ‘yes’—but she nodded anyway. “And,” she added, raising a finger, “if I come back to find that you’ve done something stupid, like tried to leave the building yourself while your brain is bruised, I will tie you to the closet door.”

“My brain is not bruised.”

“Your brain is bruised, Renard, you’re just going to have to deal with that fact.”

“I will not leave unless you take too long. Make sure I have a clock, or you will have to deal with my time estimates.”

The look he gave her told her that sixty-one minutes would turn into about fifteen if she left him to his own devices, so she hunted around for some sort of clock. The watch she’d taken off of him while he was on Rohypnol was in the closet, and she hesitated to give it back to him for the same reason she’d taken it off in the first place—it was high-tech and looked like it cost more money than she’d ever had in her life, and she was afraid she’d break it.

 “Here. Be careful, I don’t want you breaking this because you got dizzy and fell over. Just stay put, okay? I’ll give you the TV remote.”

“It is my watch and I will break it if I want,” he said, but he was careful when he set it on the arm of the chair. “Give me the remote.”

She passed it over, and then a blanket, reminding him not to fall asleep and then leaving him to some sitcom that made him scowl.

Once in the hall, she stopped and leaned against the wall, pressing her lips together. When she was with Renard, it was easy to focus on everything going on around her and not examine the butterflies in her stomach that weren’t from nerves anymore—but she couldn’t deny the way she ached in her chest and throat and belly the farther she was from him. She had spent a lifetime falling for the wrong men, and being with the wrong men, but this was by far the worst—he was engaged to an heiress beautiful enough to be on the cover of _Vogue_ and _Cosmo_ ; he may or may not have been some sort of human trafficker; and she had drugged, abducted, and strangled him. Added to that, she’d only known him for a day.

She took a deep breath and let it out in a gust, then shook herself off and straightened up. She was a professional, and now she was dressed like one, and she was going to march down to Sergei’s office in her professional heels and not think about Renard. Also, she was not going to tell Sergei about the broken window or the unlocked door.

The walk up to the third floor beat down the nervous tears leftover from their encounter with the hit man. By the time she knocked on Sergei’s door, she felt calm.

“It’s me!” she called when he didn’t answer.

“Come in.”

Belle pushed the door open to find Sergei watching her from behind the desk he had claimed as his own in this temporary office space, and as soon as she closed it again, he was on his feet, coming toward her.

“Sergei—”

“Thank God you’re all right.” His arms closed around her, pulling her tight against his chest. The sweet scent of his cologne was comforting and familiar, and she slipped her arms around his waist and up his back so that she could breathe him in. Her heart didn’t race, but she felt the last inklings of tears dry up.

“What happened?” She didn’t look up to talk—if she couldn’t hug Renard, she was damn well going to hug Sergei instead.

“I think you were right. Mr. Zokas is just a pawn for someone much bigger. Now that he is dead—”

“What?” She looked up at him, then, eyebrows drawn together. Sergei frowned down.

“He is not dead?”

“No.” She shook her head. “He saved both of us.”

“He did?”

She nodded, studying Sergei’s face for anything unusual, but he was as expressionless as always, and this comforted Belle.

“Well.” His hands came up to her cheeks, fingers combing her lank hair back. “I am in his debt, then, and eternally grateful.” He kissed her on the forehead, and Belle felt no rush of heat to her cheeks, none of the usual breathlessness that came from Sergei’s thoughtless affection.

“Me, too.” She forced a smile, reaching up to pat one of his hands.

He studied her for a few more seconds before kissing the apple of her cheek—a more romantic gesture than he was wont to perform—and letting go of her to move back to his desk. She took a seat in front of it, playing with her hands in her lap.

“We must figure out what to do next,” he said, staring down at an open file folder.

“I think we should bring Renard somewhere safe.”

His head snapped up to look at her, and she flushed, realizing her mistake even before he asked, “Who?”

“Um—Mr. Zokas. I meant Mr. Zokas.”

“What did you call him?”

“Nothing, he just—he asked me to call him Renard.”

Sergei’s eyes flicked towards her hands in her lap, where she was twisting her finger, and she almost jumped. Had he always known about that?

“Did you give him your name?”

“What?” How could he know? Was she that transparent? “No, he’s been calling me ‘princess,’ actually, very degrading, totally typical of the pawn of a—”

“Damn it, Belle, I just want to keep you safe and you can’t even keep your name a secret? How can I protect you if you cannot follow one simple—”

“Excuse me.” She sat up straighter. “I don’t need you to protect me—”

“Oh, right, because _Renard_ is protecting you.”

“No.” It felt like her blood was rushing through her veins, burning up any lingering doubts—had Sergei always been this quick to anger? “Because I can protect myself.”

“I am sorry.” He reached a hand toward her. “I know. I didn’t mean to yell, I’m just scared of losing you because I made a mistake.”

Hesitant, she reached her hand toward his, letting their fingertips touch. “It’s okay. It’s been stressful. But I have some ideas.”

“I would very much like to hear them.”

She sat up straight, pulling her hands away so that she could gesture, but as soon as she opened her mouth, there was a knock on the door.

Sergei looked up, frowning, and waited until another woman on the other side announced that it was her.

“Make it quick.”

The door opened to reveal a tall, slender woman in a mink coat. Her lips were a deep burgundy, eyes lined with black, and Belle found herself speechless, as though her favorite celebrity had just walked in.  

“What?” Sergei asked, but the woman said nothing. She swept over to him behind the desk, gaze lingering on Belle like she was a distasteful piece of furniture before she lowered her lips to his ear and spoke in a low whisper.

When Sergei responded, she could hear that they were conversing in Russian, and he was speaking too quickly and quietly for her to translate any of the words. Before the woman left, Sergei’s fingers brushed her hand, and she gave him a languid smile.

Belle couldn’t breathe, couldn’t get the face out of her head.

“I’m sorry, you were telling me your ideas?”

“Are you sleeping with her?” she asked, rubbing her thumb against her finger so hard, it almost hurt.

Sergei opened his mouth, and this might have been the first time she had ever seen him struggle for words. “Belle—”

“No, Sergei, I want to know the truth.” She summoned up a few tears, letting her eyes fill. “Are you seeing that woman?”

He sighed, looking down at his desk. “Yes.”

She forced herself to breathe, then looked at him and shook her head. “I thought—I thought that we—”

“Belle, I thought you didn’t want me, that it would be better this way.” He glanced down at her hands again, and she realized they were still, so she rubbed at her finger.

“I love you, Sergei,” she said, and pushed her chair out to stand up. “I thought you felt the same.”

He looked up at her, eyes wide like he had never before seen all of her, and she pressed her lips together.

“Belle, darling—”

“I just need some time, okay? It’s—it’s a lot to take in.” She wrung her fingers together, and he nodded.

“All right. I will come by and speak with you and Zokas in an hour.”

She nodded and turned, sniffling loudly. He watched her until she shut the door behind her, and she continued sniffling until she rounded the corner, where she peeled off her heels and sprinted back to Renard’s room.

When she burst in, panting, Renard’s eyes were closed and he was slumped back on the chair. She slammed the door shut.

“Renard!”

He jolted awake with a hoarse grunt, eyes unfocused, so she hurried over to him and snapped her fingers a few times until his eyes fixed on her hand.

“Hi. How are you feeling?”

“Good.” He sounded like a drunk, but at least he was answering.

“Do you know what day it is?”

“Not a damn clue.” His head lolled to the side, so she picked it up.

“What’s my name?”

“Belle.”

“What’s your name?”

“Renard.”

“How about your real name?”

“Victor.”

“Good, brain damage hasn’t worsened.” She pointed his head at her face, making sure he was looking at her.

“I don’t have brain damage,” he said.

“Whatever, Renard, you can be in denial however much you want. I have news, though, and none of it is good.” She bit her lip, and he looked like he wanted to roll his eyes, but couldn’t.

“Great.”

“Well.” She flopped her head back and forth, debating. “Actually, one piece is good.”

“And what is that?”

“I believe you, Renard. One hundred percent. You are innocent, and I am going to spend my life making these past two days up to you.”

His mouth twitched, so she took that as a smile. “All right, what’s the bad news?”

She chewed her lip. Him being concussed could either be better or worse for his reception of this news, but she would only find out if she told him.

“Your fiancée is sleeping with my boss, and we have to leave immediately.”


	5. Chapter 4

“What?” Renard threw his blanket off and stood up, looking like he might spit fire. “What do you mean?”

Now that he was up and about, Belle scurried off to throw things into her overnight bag—her makeup, her clothes, all the things she’d taken from Renard when he was unconscious, the binder. When she came across his shirt, she tossed it to him.

“I just went to see my boss, and she was there.”

“She could not have been there, she is in Spain for another week.”

“Well, she lied, because she was there. Look.” She zipped the suitcase up and turned around. “I work for the Mary Gordon Foundation, and this was all supposed to be measures taken to stop an international criminal. I don’t know if my boss is innocent and being played, or if he had a part in this whole thing, but he’s coming here in an hour, and we have to be out by then.”

“You saw her?” he asked, as though he hadn’t heard a word she’d said. “Elektra?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure it was her?” He pulled the shirt on as he walked toward her, stumbling over his toes.

“Yes. She was tall and glamorous with pretty makeup and a mink coat, and I’m not going to lie, I was a little in love with her when she walked in.”

“Shit.” He pressed his head to his hands, and Belle moved so fast to make sure he didn’t fall, she might have teleported. He let her hold him, which wasn’t going to be good for either of them if she kept it up much longer with the way her legs were starting to sway.

“I’m so sorry, Renard.”

“Shit.” He struggled to stand, hand over his eyes. “Fuck, I cannot believe that she would do something like this to me, of all people—” He whirled on her, removing his hand. “Your boss. What is his name?”

Something in his face told her that telling him was going to change everything, but she had to be honest with Renard. They were in this together now, because she was an idiot, and she couldn’t hide things from him.

“Sergei Karpovich.”

He stared at her for a few seconds, and she was afraid he was going to pass out, but then he let fly a string of curses that she was sure would have made her blush had they been in English.

“Renard?”

“Come on.” He strode toward the cot and bent down, unwinding the rope that had bound his leg. “We will take the window.”

“The window? Can’t we just leave?”

“And what if someone sees us leaving?”

“Well, how are we going to get out the window? You have a concussion, and I have a suitcase.” She folded her arms.

“Leave the suitcase.”

“No! It’s got everything in it. What if we need something?”

He growled, standing up with the rope, and stalked over to her. “Is there anything breakable in it?”

“I don’t think so—hey!”

He grabbed the suitcase out of her hand and flung it out the window. “There. Now it is waiting for us.”

Belle’s throat squeaked, but Renard continued moving about the room, picking up the handcuffs  and gun on his way to the closet. She had no idea what was going on, but he moved with purpose and she had to trust him. When she checked out the window to make sure the suitcase was okay, the man from earlier was still lying unconscious in the grass.

“So what’s your plan?” She watched him tie the rope to the closet doorknob, tugging it to make sure the knot was tight.

“This is long enough to go about halfway down the window. You get on my back, and I will climb us down.”

“What? No, that’s the worst plan ever.”

“It is a great plan.”

“Renard, you have a concussion, you’re not carrying me down. You go down first, and then I’ll come after you.”

“I will catch you.”

“Fine, whatever. Just go.” While they climbed, she was going to have to figure out a way to leave the building without Sergei noticing her car missing. They would probably just have to pray that he didn’t.

“Watch the door,” he said when she came over to help him out the window.

“You fell over walking, Renard. I’m not going to let you fall out a window. You’ll die.”

He growled the whole time, but he let her steady him until he had a solid grip and could climb down himself. Then, she watched the door until a thump indicated he’d hit the ground. She took her purse from the closet, making sure it was zipped.

“Are you all right?” she called, leaning out and dropping the purse. He was stumbling around, though, and couldn’t answer. It was now or never if she was going to climb—and she had the feeling that it was also now or never if she planned to be alive in an hour.

She wobbled as she tried to balance on the window sill. How had Renard done it with his concussion?

“Toss your shoes to me,” he called up to her, and she jumped, hitting her head hard enough on the jagged glass above that she was sure there would be blood. She kicked her shoes off, trying not to get any broken glass on the soles of her feet, but it did make it easier to balance. Her skirt rode up as she adjusted herself, but she didn’t have time for modesty. If she’d known she’d be climbing out a window, she’d have kept the sweatpants on.

When she managed to shimmy out of the window, she braced her feet on the wall. In theory, she would be able to sort of walk down, like on a rock climbing wall, and not have to rely on her upper body strength to get her down the rope. She could feel it straining under her weight, and it burned her hands, but the only choice she had was to climb, so she did, hand over hand, foot by foot.

“Let go.”

She was almost at the bottom and every part of her body stung, so she listened and let go. She fell through the circle of Renard’s arms feet first, and he caught her around the waist.

“We did it,” she said, pressing her forehead to his shoulder.

“This was only the beginning. Come on.”

“Are your hands okay?” she asked when he bent down to pick up the suitcase.

“Yes. Are your feet?”

“Yes.” It was a lie, but she knew his was, too, so she sucked it up and slid her feet back into her shoes. “All right, we’ll take my car. Come on.”

There were only five cars in the lot—Sergei’s Benz, an SUV, two sedans, and Belle’s Toyota—and Renard seemed to know instinctively that the beat up blue Prius was hers.

 She unlocked it and stuffed him into the passenger seat, making sure none of his limbs were flopping out when she slammed it shut before running around to the driver’s side. She’d never had time to really appreciate her car’s turn radius until she was whipping backwards out of a parking space near a Benz and hitting nothing, and then they were on the open road.

“Oh my god, we did it. Oh my god. Would you be really angry with me if I cried?” She gripped the steering wheel hard enough that the joints in her hands would ache as much as her rope-burned palms tomorrow.

“Yes.”

“Okay, I won’t. Buckle your seatbelt.”

Renard sighed, reaching for the belt and snapping it into place. “All right, we will need to lose the car and steal a new one.”

“What?” She glanced at him, face drawn. “I’m not stealing a car, Renard.”

“Well, how else are we going to get around?”

“I don’t know—my car?”

Renard let out a bark of laughter. “They will find us and kill us in an hour. We need a new car, and we need money. I have a safe in my office with cash. We can stop there.”

Going to his office sounded like a trap, but Belle couldn’t afford not to trust him.

“Have you done this before?”

“Done what?”

“Climbed out a window to escape after you were abducted for information?”

“Yes.”

He didn’t even look at her. It was like he was used to being asked questions like that all the time. He probably was.

“Okay, whatever. I think I know a place where we can get a car that we won’t have to steal.”

“Oh?” He lifted his head, turning to look at her.

Taking a deep breath, she nodded once and headed for the highway.

 

* * *

 

Half an hour later, they were pulling up to a Toyota dealership. She’d had to snap her fingers in Renard’s face to wake him up twice, and she was starting to think she should take him to the emergency room. A hospital would be safe, right?

“Where are we?” he asked, frowning at her as she pulled into an employee space. “Do you work here?”

“Nope.” She turned the car off and looked at it. This was probably the last time she would ever see it. Hoping that Renard would forget this when his brain healed, she leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the top of her steering wheel.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing.” She fumbled with her seatbelt. “Grab the suitcase. And hand me my purse?”

They made an odd pair, walking into the dealership with a suitcase carried by a man who could hardly stand straight. Belle kept an arm around his back to balance him, walking toward the offices and trying not to wince on her brick-sanded feet. Maybe they’d go numb, soon.

“Belle?”

She turned her head over Renard’s shoulder to see a familiar tall, burly man walking toward them.

“Is it okay? Are we safe?” Renard mumbled, swaying in her grip. “I need to sit.”

“Hi, Clive.” She waved as best she could with Renard sagging more heavily against her, staggering under the combined weight of him and the suitcase.

“Oh my god, is he okay?” Clive rushed forward, taking the suitcase, and Renard straightened up a bit.

“Can we talk in your office?” Belle pushed Renard’s head upright, biting her lip.

Clive helped her get Renard down the hallway and into a chair. The hospital was definitely the next stop, at least to make sure they hadn’t accidentally killed him by letting him climb out a window and carry things.

“Do you have any ice? We’ve had a trying day, and he has a concussion.” Belle settled herself in her chair, biting her lip again. Clive sighed as he moved around to his swivel chair behind the desk, then pressed a button on his phone.

“ _Yeah_?”

“This is Clive, I need someone to bring me an ice pack. I have a client with an injury.”

The line was silent for a few seconds, and then, “ _Roger that._ ”

He looked up at Belle then, back straight and jaw clenched, and Belle twisted her finger. She hadn’t seen Clive in almost a month, but neither of them made a move to speak. The silence stretched between them for a full three minutes, in which Renard flopped in the chair like he might have been dying, until the door opened and a man in a red suit walked in with a bag of ice.

Belle accepted it in silence, and the man fled with an awkward nod and oily smile to Clive. When she broke the spell, it was to speak to Renard.

“Hey.” She snapped her fingers in front of his face and he blinked her into focus. “Can you hold this or do you need me to?”

He grabbed for the ice pack, missing twice before closing his hand around it. “I can hold it.”

Despite his assurances, she helped him position it on his head, and then he leaned back and closed his eyes. Satisfied that they were at least doing something for him, Belle turned her attention to Clive, hands clasped together in her lap.

“Hello, Clive.”

“What do you want, Belle?”

“We need a car.”

“A car?” Clive frowned, furry eyebrows deepening into a V. “I saw yours outside, it seemed fine. And you know I can’t sell it to you at cost anymore, Belle. I mean, I’ll cut you a deal, but only because your father—”

“Actually, Clive, it’s much more complicated than that.” She chewed her lip, glancing at Renard to make sure he was still alive because it gave her something to do other than meet Clive’s eyes.

“What do you mean?”

“Belle.”

Both of them turned to look at Renard, who pried an eye open to look in the general direction of Clive. “Is he your fiancé?”

“Yes,” Clive said at the same time Belle said, “Ex-fiancé.”

“What, are you just carrying a torch?” Renard flapped a hand toward Clive, closing his eyes again.

“Renard, stop talking.” Belle patted his arm. “Anyway, Clive, we really need a car, and for you to take my car. Put it in the shop, take it apart, destroy it however you can.”

“Fuck.”

They both looked at Renard again, who was now sitting up straight and tapping the arm of the chair.

“What’s wrong? Are you all right?” Belle reached over to press her fingers to his forehead, but it was just cold now.

“Destroy. We need to get rid of our phones.”

“What? Don’t we need phones?”

“Tracking.”

Belle frowned, pulling her phone out of her purse. She already had three texts from Sergei— _Where are you?_ , _Are you safe?_ , and _Belle please answer me so I know you’re okay_. “Right. Okay. Let me write down the important numbers.”

“What’s going on?” Clive asked, looking like he wanted to shake her, but unable with a desk between them.

“Let me see your computer,” Renard said, shoving his chair back like he was going to stand up.

“What? No.” Clive frowned, reaching to guard the tower below his desk.

“I need to download the phone numbers.” Renard lumbered around to stand at Clive’s side, setting his ice on the desk and using the swivel-chair for support. “Belle, find my phone.”

She set hers on the desk, then went for the suitcase to dig his out. Renard focused on the computer, looking like a drunk trying to read, ignoring Clive’s protests as he grabbed for the mouse and keyboard.

“One of you has a cord, yes?”

“I don’t,” Belle said, chewing her lip as she passed Renard’s phone to him.

Clive looked between them, sighed, and pulled one out of his desk drawer, handing it over like he was handing the keys to his prized car to a stranger. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“I can’t tell you exactly, but I can tell you that it’s bad, and so many lives are at stake. We’re sort of on the run.” She pressed her lips together.

“Did you rob someone?”

“No! We—” She paused, chewing her lip and rubbing her finger. “—we learned something that someone didn’t want us to know. And now we have to stop it.”

“What?” Renard looked up. “No. No, we are hiding, and as soon as we can, fleeing the country.”

“What? No, we’re not fleeing the country, Renard. What are we supposed to do in another country?”

He looked up at her, and for a second, he looked whole and healthy and angry. “We live, Belle. Because I guarantee you that, if we stay here, Sergei will find us, and we will die.”

“Wait, Sergei your boss?” Clive asked, looking between the two of them like he couldn’t decide which was more important.

Belle smacked her palm on the desk. “How do you know?”

“Because, Belle, I know my fiancé.” Renard looked at her, lips spread in a tight, waxy smile. “And I know my brother.”

Belle opened her mouth, closed it, breathed, opened it again, and then frowned. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“Your brother?”

“Oh, now I know why you look familiar,” Clive said, wagging a finger at Renard. “It’s the nose.”

If Belle had been standing, she’d have fallen into her chair. Instead, she slumped in it, dropping her forehead into her hands. “Oh god. Oh god, oh god, I am so stupid.”

Renard grunted, but didn’t try to deny it, and she slumped further, wishing she could curl into a ball.

“He knew who you were the whole time. He knew you were innocent. Oh god, I should have known something was wrong, I am so sorry.”

Renard stood up straight and unplugged the phone from the computer, grabbing the other off the desk before wobbling back around to her. “Do not feel bad, he has always been the attractive one.”

That only made her feel worse—was she really that shallow?—but now was not the time to wallow in self-pity, so she straightened up.

“Can someone please explain to me what’s going on?” Clive asked, stuffing his cord back in the drawer.

“Save this document.” Renard sat in the chair, hard, and pressed his forehead to his hand. “Something misleading and uninteresting, like ‘tax returns,’ and then print it.” He lifted his head, then passed Belle her phone. “Take the battery out. We will destroy it when we leave.”

She did, saying a silent goodbye to the phone that had served her well for two years, as well as the texts from Sergei that were the last of any good thoughts she could have about him, and then it was time to tell Clive why they were there—in full this time.

“So, as I said, we need a car.”

“Wait.” Clive held up one massive hand. “Are you two dating?”

“Shut up,” Renard said, ice pack back on his forehead while he curled up toward his knees.

“No. Haven’t you been paying attention? We’re on the run and we need a car that Sergei won’t recognize. Also, he is probably going to come here to ask you if we came to get a car. In fact, he is definitely going to come here to ask you that, so you have to tell him that we must have stolen it. You saw my car in the lot, checked the inventory, and found something missing. Okay?”

“Whoa, wait a minute.” He clasped his hands on the desk, looking like he was doing no more than trying to negotiate price with a normal client, save for the small twitch in his jaw. “So you came here to tell me that you’re stealing a car.”

“No, we’ll pay. If we’re still alive after all this.”

“My checkbook,” Renard said, lifting his head. “It is in my jacket pocket. Get it.”

His jacket and collared shirt had been the first things she’d removed from unconscious Renard when she’d abducted him, in case he’d been hiding things in pockets she couldn’t see, and now she was glad she had thought to put both in the suitcase. She came up with his checkbook after a minute and handed it to him.

“Give us your worst car,” Renard said, groping around on the desk for a pen. “Name a price. Cash this check in a month.”

Clive’s face was drawn tight again, forehead creased above his furry brows. “Okay, so let me get this straight. You want me to give you a car and assume that, in a month, you’ll pay for it?”

“Yes.” Renard sat up, focusing his bleary gaze on Clive. “Also, I see that you have a safe. How much cash is in it?”

Clive looked toward the framed map of Pennsylvania on the wall. “What safe?”

“I never noticed that before.” Belle studied the map. “Huh.”

“We all know it is there, and if you do not give me the money and accept a second check, I will just steal it.”

Belle wanted to reprimand him, but she kept her mouth shut. He was probably not bluffing, but she was sure that the threat would help Clive cave.

“Fine.” Clive folded his arms, making himself look twice as bulky. “There’s about twelve grand in the safe. You’ll write me a check for it that won’t bounce?”

“I am Victor Zokas,” Renard said, jabbing the pen in his direction. “My checks never bounce.”

“Unless we die and his fiancée takes over control of his financial assets and freezes you out of them,” Belle said, because lying to Clive about what would be at least twenty thousand dollars seemed like as bad an offense as breaking their engagement.

“What?”

“Well, we hope that it won’t be a problem?” She shrugged. “Just—we really need this. It’s a matter of life and death.”

Clive’s scowl made his square face look even more rigid as his gaze darted from Belle to Renard over and over. After half a minute, he threw his chair back and stood up. “Fine. I’ll give you the cash.” He lifted the frame off the wall to reveal a safe with a tiny dial. When it swung open, there were four neat stacks of bills.

“About twelve thousand, give or take a couple hundred.”

“Put it in the suitcase,” Renard said, signing the check with an illegible scribble.

Belle accepted the stacks as Clive passed them over, wedging them where she could, but pausing to take a few hundred off the fourth stack to stick in her purse. They would have to buy new phones before they went to the hospital.

“All right. Oh, before we go outside, I need to warn you, Clive.”

Renard narrowed his eyes, but didn’t manage to turn his head to her. Clive’s face twisted.

“About what?”

“When Sergei comes here, he will have a woman with him. Don’t look at her.”

“What?”

“Clive.” She leaned forward, bracing her arms on the desk. He leaned forward, too, brow furrowed. “I mean it. Don’t look at her. I know how you are with women, and you will endanger our lives if you look at her.”

He spluttered, leaning back so quickly that his chair rolled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“She’s really beautiful and glamorous, Clive. Even I had a crush on her. You don’t stand a chance.”

“I am uncomfortable,” Renard said.

“How am I supposed to not look at her?” Clive folded his arms. “I think she’ll notice.”

“Okay, fine. Google her, and desensitize yourself. Go on. Elektra King. That’s Elektra with a ‘k.’”

“I am very uncomfortable,” Renard repeated as Clive pulled up to his computer and started typing. Belle scooted until she could see the screen as well, and it soon filled with links to news articles. Clive clicked ‘images,’ and then hundreds of scantily clad Elektras appeared.

“Whoa.” Clive leaned forward. “Okay. I see your point.”

“You know, technically, she is still my fiancée.” Renard twisted his head to glare at her. “Can we go know?”

“Yeah, yeah, hang on a sec.” Clive waved a hand, scrolling down to some shots of her in a bikini, and Renard let out a wolf-like growl.

“Look later.” He stood up, bracing himself on the desk. “We need to go.”

“He’s right,” Belle said, hurrying to help him. “Just remember to be careful with Elektra, okay?”

“I’ll be careful.” Clive closed out of Google. “And you be careful. I don’t want to be out thousands of dollars.”

“We’ll try,” she said, holding Renard up, but being careful sounded like a luxury they might not be able to afford.  

 

* * *

 

She let Renard fall asleep after they’d picked out their new phones—the cheapest pay-as-you-go ones they could find—and a cheap laptop, because she knew he would protest making a stop at the hospital, and it wasn’t a long enough drive for her to worry about him being unconscious through it. Their new car was a beige Buick with patchy leather seats that made Belle’s thighs hurt, but it didn’t stop him from nodding off.

St. Mary’s was probably too obvious a choice, but if Sergei or Elektra found them there, Belle would think of a way to get out. It was more important that they make sure that Renard had done himself no permanent damage.

“Where are we?” he asked as she helped him out of the car, slurring and stumbling like a drunk.

“Somewhere safe.”

He grunted, letting her prop him up on the car while she got her purse, and when they started walking again, he leaned on her.

“Is this the hospital?”

“Yes.”

“We don’t have time—”

“I’m taking care of you. Deal with it.”

Since it was early evening, the emergency room was fairly crowded. The fact that this was a brain injury moved them up in the rankings, but so did Renard’s slurred declaration that he was Victor Fucking Zokas and he would donate ten grand to the hospital if they took him in immediately.

Belle couldn’t go in while they gave him a CAT scan, and though Renard had tried to protest, she’d silenced him with the promise to wait outside. It was only partially a lie—she would be near enough, but she needed to go around the corner to the pay phone she’d seen. This was probably the last time she’d be at a safe place where she could call her father and not have it traced.

He picked up on the third ring, and she had to swallow a few times to get her voice under control.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Dad.”

“Belle? Are you okay? What’s wrong? The caller I.D. says St. Mary’s.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.” She chewed on her cheek. “One of the women fell and hit her head, so I took her to the emergency room.”

He let out breath in a whoosh. “Well, I’m glad you’re all right. Do you need anything?”

“No, everything’s fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“What are you going to do, drive all the way here to bring me dinner?”

“If you need it!”

She forced a tiny laugh. “Well, thanks, Dad. But I’m fine. Really. Men make her nervous anyway, so it’s better if she just wakes up to me.”

“All right, all right. Just call me if you need me, okay?”

“I will. I’ll talk to you soon. I love you.”

“Love you, too, sweetheart.”

“Bye, Dad.”

She hung up, pressing her lips together and focusing on taking even breaths. Now was not the time to worry about her comfort. Renard was getting a brain scan, and then she had to find a way to hide both of them somewhere safe and comfortable while he recovered. Then, she needed to figure out what the hell to do about Sergei and Elektra.


	6. Chapter 5

Belle walked into his room, and Renard was glaring from his bed before she could even get the door shut.

“You said you would be here.”

“I’m right here.” She had two bags of potato chips, a teddy bear, and a cheap mystery novel. “Was I just supposed to sit here and watch you sleep?”

“You were supposed to be outside when I woke up.”

“I was getting us snacks.” She waved the bags at him before setting everything at the foot of his bed so that she could pull a chair over. “Do you want some?”

“I am not hungry.”

“Fine.” She sat, gathering her items into her lap, and then tossed him the teddy bear. “I got you this.”

He picked it up, studying its generic brown face and pink knit sweater. “Why?”

“Because you’re sick and cranky, and I thought you could use something. The nurse told me that the doctor wants you to stay overnight for observation, and since we’re not family, I don’t think I’m allowed to stay with you.”

“No.” He struggled to sit up, tossing the bear to his feet. “No, absolutely not. We are leaving. Find my clothes.”

“Renard, lie down. You’re staying the night if I have to tie you down.”

“Yes, that worked so well last time.” 

They glared at each other, until Belle broke the spell by opening a chip bag with a crinkling squeak. Renard leaned back, glaring at the door, and she slumped in her chair. She crunched in silence for a few seconds, prepared to get a nurse to tell Renard that he couldn’t move if she had to.

“I knew, you know.”

She jumped at the sound of his voice, and when she turned to him, he wasn’t looking at her. “Knew what?”

“I knew that Elektra didn’t feel the same any more. Things have been off ever since we announced our engagement.”

“I thought you two were madly in love?” She tried to chew more quietly to keep the mood, but she was starving, and it was hard to slow down with her chips.

“We used to be, I think.” He shrugged. “We used to just stop what we were doing and have sex.”

Belle tried not to grimace—it wasn’t every day that men like Renard got a chance to talk about their feelings, and she wasn’t going to ruin it by being judgmental about which information he chose to share. Probably.

“And then what?”

“You know how relationships go. We still had good sex, a lot of it, but it wasn’t full of real passion. Just energy. Lots of energy. Good energy—”

“Okay, okay, I get it, you guys were really good at sex.” She shuddered—she and Clive had been almost mechanical in their love-making, more like they were performing their duty as an engaged couple than making any love, and she didn’t need him rubbing his relationship in her face.

“Well, we used to talk, too. About our hopes and plans. But then it was just sex. And then we got engaged.” He shrugged. “I don’t know what happened then. We both travel a lot, but she started taking even more trips. I thought she was just getting nervous about settling down for good.”

“Do you think she was nervous about that at all?” she asked, crumpling up her empty bag. Renard glanced at her, eyes drawn to the foil in her palms, and then shrugged again.

“I don’t know. I think it all went downhill after our engagement party. That must have been when she met Sergei.”

“Did they get along?”

“They got along as well as Elektra gets along with anybody. But I guess they found a few minutes in private.” He ran a hand along his head. “I do not know why I am telling you this.”

“Maybe your brain damage is skewing your judgment.”

He glanced sideways at her, shaking his head when she smiled. “Maybe.”

“How long—” She paused, searching for the least offensive words.

“Yes?”

“How long has this been going on?”

He rested the back of his head against the wall, studying the door. “Well, the engagement party was about three months ago.”

“Really?”

Renard rolled his head around to face her, looking like he wanted to nod but unable to move his head enough. “Yes. Why?”

“I think I was supposed to be at your party.”

He frowned, eyebrows drawing in so much, his eyes were almost hidden. “What? Why? You were not invited.”

“Sergei asked me to go as his date.”

“And you did not want to?”

“Oh, I did. I bought a new dress and everything. Blew half a paycheck on a dress at Sak’s that I’d been eyeing for months. But then I had to take a woman up to Allentown because our usual shelter was full, so I couldn’t go.”

“There are shelters that are empty enough to take overflow?”

“Oh, no. I have a friend who houses women who need to go somewhere else, or somewhere more private.”

Renard was quiet, eyelids drooping, and she couldn’t tell if he was thinking or if he’d just lost focus. Belle opened the second bag of chips.

“Everything would have been different if I’d gone to the party.” She bit one of the chips in half, rolling it around on her tongue until it crumbled into mush. “We probably would have avoided all of this.”

“I doubt it.”

“Think about it.” She squeezed the other half of the chip, jumping when it snapped and crumbled back into the bag. “If I’d been there, I’d have known he was your brother, so he wouldn’t have been able to frame you. He’d have been with me, so he wouldn’t have had the chance to talk to Elektra alone—I imagine you have terrible friends who would only hit on me, so I’d have needed to stick by him. You and I might have even spoken, and I would have known all about your businesses, so even if he managed to plan a scheme to convince me to kidnap his brother, I’d be wary because I’d already know you.”

“No, that is all bullshit.” Renard shifted in the bed, reaching for her chips without looking at her. She passed the bag over.

“Is it?”

“Yes. If you had been at the party, you would have hated me—if we spoke at all. He would have met Elektra, because he is my brother, they would have just been more private. And then, if you were unavailable, he would have just found someone else to abduct me. They would have to have been more ruthless without you to accept the blame for it. Really, it is better that you were not there, because I could be dead right now otherwise.”

“Your family has issues,” she said, biting her lip. Renard wouldn’t want salt rubbed in.

“Yes. They always have.” He sat up and stretched forward, and it took Belle a few seconds of struggling to hover over him and make sure he was all right to realize that he was just reaching for the bear at his feet. “I think I do remember Sergei RSVPing with a plus one. He does not usually like to show up alone.”

“Yeah, he wasn’t happy.” She shook her head, trying to tamp down the fondness that surfaced at the memory. “He whined on the phone.”

“He probably whined to Elektra. You know, even if you had come, she would have hated you.”

Belle’s head snapped up, eyes widening at the amused tilt to the corner of his mouth. “What? Why?”

“Because you are beautiful like she is, but poor, and on the arm of a powerful man.”

“I’m not poor!”

He tilted his head toward her. “Belle, Elektra is an heiress. One bra of hers probably costs more than your entire wardrobe. Except maybe the new dress.”

 Belle wrinkled her nose. “Well, it could have saved you heartache if she’d been jealous of me being with Sergei. You’d have seen through her early on.”

He let out a humorless breath of laughter. “Perhaps.” He lifted the bear in his hands up, moving its arms with his thumbs like he was trying to make it wave. “What happened in Sergei’s office earlier anyway?”

“Oh, right.” She wriggled in her chair, the coarse upholstery suddenly making her itchy. “Well, he hugged me and told me that he was worried, and that he thought that I was right, that someone was trying to frame you. And then he got mad at me for speaking fondly of you—”

“You spoke fondly of me?”

“Of course. You’re innocent.”

“And he was mad?”

“Furious.”

Renard smirked at the bear, and Belle couldn’t tell whether he had decided that it was his comrade or that it was a stand-in for Sergei. “Good. What happened next?”

“Elektra came in and talked to him, glared at me, and left. I asked him if they were sleeping together and he said yes, so I told him I was in love with him and that I needed time to process all of this, and then I ran to you.”

Renard’s head snapped up so fast, he hissed in pain, and Belle leapt up to hold it steady.

“Are you okay? Are you going to throw up?”

The nurse had left a trash can next to him, and when Renard finished vomiting into it, Belle had a cup of water ready. He rinsed his mouth while Belle stroked his scalp, and then she took the water and the bin away from him.

“You told Sergei that you love him?” he asked when he’d caught his breath.

“Yes.”

“Do you?”

He hissed when her nails dug into his scalp, and she jumped, petting the sore area in apology. “Of course not. I only said it to get away.”

“But you like him.”

“I don’t know. I admired him for a very long time. It’s hard to let go of that, even if I know admiring him is a waste of time.” She tried to curl Renard’s hair in her fingers, but there was not enough of it, so she gave up and let her hand drop. “I certainly don’t love him, though, and I never have. Even when I was new and totally enamored with him, I always knew it wasn’t love.”

“You’re a smart woman,” he said, eyes drifting closed. “How long have you been working for Sergei?”

“Three years.”

“Did you throw yourself at him as soon as you left your fiancé?”

It was a question that could have been laced with venom, but Belle could sense no ill will from Renard. He was just concussed, and tactless. “No. Not really. It just happened, I think. We’ve always been very close and affectionate, it just seemed natural that night. But then, like I said, I left in the middle of the night, and we haven’t talked about it. Me telling him that I loved him was the first thing that’s happened since.”

“Why did you leave in the middle of the night?”

She had never spoken of it before, and she wasn’t sure that Renard was the best person to share with, but he might be the last person she ever got to know—so why not? “Things were weird. It just—it wasn’t what I was expecting, and I panicked and ran.”

“Did he hurt you?”

“No!” She twisted around to look at him, but he was playing with the bear’s arms again like a distracted child who’d been given a slinky. “He wouldn’t do that.”

He laughed—a soft, mean sound through his nose that made Belle shiver. “Maybe you are just lucky.”

“I’m going to go see about getting us something for dinner,” she said, standing up and tripping over her feet in her haste.

“No chicken,” Renard said, too distracted by the bear to continue any conversations without prodding. “Only beef or fish.”

“Fine, I’ll find some beef or fish.”

“Good.”

She fled the hospital room on wobbly steps, trying not to be obvious lest Renard say something more, but he didn’t notice, still too distracted by the bear that she’d brought—and if she had been regretting that purchase when he first saw it, she certainly wasn’t regretting it now.

* * *

At midnight, she told the nurse that she was Renard’s girlfriend, and the only family he had—it was lucky that the nurse did not keep up with the New York social elite—and so the hospital let her stay in his room. This gave her a place to shower and change her clothes, and she spent most of Renard’s fitful night straightening her hair with a flat iron she’d borrowed from a teenage girl down the hall.

The longer the night wore on, the less she could sleep, and the more she started to feel trapped. Sergei was bound to find them here, even though they were farther out in the suburbs of Pennsylvania than he might have anticipated. They were just sitting ducks waiting for Renard’s head to get better, and they needed to figure out how to be invisible as soon as possible.

“We need to get to a big city,” Belle said, filling out Renard’s discharge papers for him. She was wearing a new dress, and had twisted her hair into a sleek bun in the hopes that no one would be able to give a proper description of her. “I’m thinking New York. I know that’s where he probably is, but it’s our safest bet, I think.”

“Baltimore,” Renard said, head against the wall and eyes closed. He was dressed now, in jeans and a green ‘WELCOME TO PHILADELPHIA’ sweatshirt that she’d gotten for him at the gift shop to offset his usual imposing demeanor.

“It’s farther, though.”

“A man owes me a favor in Baltimore. If we go there, we will have a place to stay.”

“I don’t want to stay in someone’s house and put them in danger.”

“He is a hotel manager. We will be in a hotel. A nice one that will respect our privacy.”

The hospital didn’t have maps, but there was free Wi-Fi, so Belle mapped out their trip while Renard’s paperwork went through. They would need to stop for gas only once, and only because it would be more difficult to get it in the city than on the highway.

“We also need a new car,” Renard said, studying her map over her shoulder. She was sitting near a trash can, knowing he would try to read the screen, and knowing that it might bring up his nausea.

“Why? We just got a new car.”

“Too many people have seen it. We need a new one as soon as possible, and we cannot go back to Clive. We need a chop shop or something.”

“A chop shop?” Belle’s nose wrinkled in a frown. “Can’t we just find an independent dealer?

“Do you know of an independent dealer?” He folded his arms.

Belle considered. She didn’t know a lot about types of cars, but she did know about the car business. Being engaged to the owner of a large dealership had given her a lot of insight into the competition. “I know a mechanic who sometimes has cars on the lot?”

“Is it close?”

“About half an hour.”

“Okay. Good.”

 

* * *

 

Along with the discharge paper receipt, Belle was given instructions for caring for a brain injury. She signed them where she was asked, and read over them several times with a nurse, even though she had dealt with concussions before, and even had plenty instruction sheets like this one stuffed into the glove compartment of her car.

“This would be so much easier if we knew where Sergei was,” Belle said when they were walking out. The hospital had felt safe, even if it was no more than a prison, and the idea of walking outside made her feel like she was about to walk into a firing squad.

“We will just have to guess.” Renard hefted their suitcase, which he’d insisted on carrying it himself despite all the warnings from the hospital staff.

“Maybe not.” Belle’s brow furrowed in thought, and she chewed the side of her cheek.

“What do you mean?” Renard looked all around, face drawn. “Is he here? Do you see him?”

“No. I have an idea.”

She led him to a pay phone, the most secluded she could find, and sat him down as close as possible. The idea of splitting up, even for a few minutes, was making her antsy.

“This seems like a bad idea,” Renard said, watching her insert dimes into the phone.

“Trust me.”

“What are you doing?”

“Buying us time.”

She dialed the number that she knew by heart, flapping her hand at Renard to indicate that he needed to be quiet. Summoning up the saddest thing she could think of, she forced tears into her voice. Sergei picked up on the second ring.

“What?”

“Sergei?”

“Belle?” There was a clatter, and his breathless greeting made her heart clench in real sadness for what she had lost.

“Oh, Sergei, thank God you picked up.”

“Belle, where are you? Tell me what the hell is going on.”

She squeezed the phone, turning away from Renard. “I’m at the hospital. St. Mary’s, up in Doylestown.”

Sergei cursed, the words too soft and fast for her to tell which language it was in. “What happened?”

“Oh, god, it was awful. Mr. Zokas escaped while I was in your office, so I went after him. I found him on a stolen motorcycle, and then he found me and led me on a wild goose chase all over the highway, and then he ran me off the road and I woke up in this hospital.” She let out a breathy sob. “Can you come pick me up?”

“Yes, yes of course.” He sounded distracted now, like he had lost interest in her story. “How did you not catch him?”

“I didn’t want to hurt him.” She sniffled.

“How could you be so stupid, Belle? You should have called me.”

“I didn’t think of it. I don’t even know where my phone is, it got lost.”

“Lost? How?”

“I don’t know!” She turned to glance at Renard, who was shaking his head as though he were listening to a fanciful story by a small child.

“I will get you a new phone.”

“That’s not necessary, Sergei. And—and I promise, I’ll never make that mistake again.”

“Good. I am on my way.”

“No, wait, Sergei—”

“What?”

“My clothes are all covered in blood. Could you go to my flat and get me a new dress? I have you on a list of people that the front desk can open the door for.”

He was quiet. After a long stretch of silence, he sighed. Belle smiled in triumph. “Yes, of course. Are you hungry?”

“Starving. Oh, and Sergei?”

“Yes?”

“I—I really think we should talk. You know, about what happened yesterday?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that—” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “I mean, that I’ve had plenty of time to think, and I know how I feel. Even if you were with that—that woman, I still love you.”

Sergei was quiet again, and she held her breath. Renard was watching her, eyes narrowed like he couldn’t quite figure out the rules of her game, and she continued to chew her lip.

“I love you, too,” Sergei said after an entire half-minute. “We will talk when I get there. I will come alone.”

She let out a loud sigh of relief, and Sergei echoed it with an awkward, forced chuckle she’d never heard before—perhaps she had managed to catch him off his guard for the first time. “Okay, thank you. I’ll be waiting for you.”

He hung up, and Belle turned to Renard, grinning as she tried and failed to get the phone in the cradle without looking.

“This could be bad,” Renard said, standing up.

“Or it could be exactly the head start we need.” She walked over to help him, letting him balance on her shoulder as he heaved himself out of the chair.

“It could blow up in our faces.”

“Or, if he thinks that I’m in love with him, he might go easier on us. Maybe.”

Renard shook his head, slow enough not to disturb it. “He thinks you’re an idiot, Belle. How can you let him think you are so stupid?”

“Because if he thinks I’m an idiot, he won’t be expecting me to do anything clever.” She wrapped her arm around his waist, helping him balance the weight of the suitcase. “Which means we have an advantage.”

Renard grunted, but didn’t say anything more, and Belle chose to believe that this meant he was on board with her plan.  


	7. Chapter 6

The mechanic was in Trenton, and as soon as they crossed the border into New Jersey, Renard acquired a smug grin that Belle could not get rid of no matter how hard she tried. When they pulled up to the mechanic, he looked almost gleeful, and she had no idea what this meant.

“Are you okay?” she asked, parking.

“Fantastic.”

They got out, Renard taking the suitcase and Belle making sure they had everything else—including the brain injury sheet, just in case—and walked up to the doors. The glass in front said ‘CARMICHAEL & MURRAY AUTO PARTS & DETAILING OPEN 24 HRS’ in peeling green letters, and this amused Renard even further.

“What is wrong with you?” she asked.

“Go inside.” He jerked his chin to the door. “If you would.”

Shaking her head to dismiss his antics, she pulled the door open. They were hit with a blast of freezing air, and the smell of wet paint and sand. Inside was a mixture of motorcycles and speed cars, as well as the occasional Escalade. Various spinners and rims lined the walls, along with photos of all the detailing that had been done. There were mechanics, artists, and men in leather jackets milling around everywhere.

“Hey, how can I help you?”

Belle jumped at the sound of a heavily accented voice, and turned to find a small man with a bleached buzz cut in a Carmichael & Murray t-shirt with an open button-down over it. The button-down had patches sewn on everywhere—patches for bands, car logos, cartoon characters, and some things she was sure she didn’t want to identify.

“Hi, yes, we were hoping to trade our car in? It’s sort of banged up, but it runs well, and it’s recently been repaired.”

The man—his nametag looked like it said _Tiny_ , but she thought it must have said _Timmy_ or something—narrowed his eyes like she was telling a joke he hadn’t quite figured out yet. Then, he ignored her, and looked at Renard.

“Look, my ex-fiancé used to—”

“We are on the run,” Renard said, and Belle almost hit him.

“No, we’re—”

“We are, and we need a new car. New plates, if possible.”

“On the run?” Tiny-or-Timmy asked, looking between the two of them. “Yeah, I can hook you up. You said your car was good for parts?” He peered around Belle and, speechless, she pointed at their decaying ride outside.

“Yes.” Renard nodded, teeth clenched against the motion. “We also cannot afford—”

“Yes we can!” Belle said, clearing her throat to try and tame the eagerness in her voice. “We can afford to pay the difference.”

Renard looked down at her, brow furrowed. “We need a car that drives well, but is common and inconspicuous.”

Belle kept quiet, swallowing her nerves in favor of giving Tiny Timmy the same steady, maybe-intimidating look as Renard. He looked like he was making calculations in his head, eyes cast to the ceiling while he moved his fingers along an imaginary list.

“I think we got a Honda out back, just been repainted. You can sit while I go check it out.”

They took a seat in the lobby with a view of a Trans Am getting flames painted on the front, and Renard turned to her, sinking down until they were at level.

“What the hell are you doing? We don’t have money for a new car.”

“You can write them a check,” she said, keeping her voice low.

“I cannot just keep writing people checks, Belle. We are leaving a paper trail, and these people are not Clive. They will not wait for a month on the off-chance that we live.”

“I know. We tell them to wait a few days, and then our paper trail will lead here, and we’ll be long gone. We should probably mention a fake place we’re going to as well, just so that they have something to tell Sergei, because you know he’s going to come.”

He clenched his teeth together, and looked like he was in a lot of pain, so Belle reached up to stroke his scalp again. “How can we trust them to wait to cash it?”

“We can’t, but even if they don’t wait, it’ll take long enough to clear that we’ll be gone. Also, why did you tell them we were on the run?”

He shrugged. “This is a chop shop. They probably get a lot of people on the run looking for cars. Or at least criminals.”

“No, it isn’t,” she said, looking around. “It’s just an auto shop run by people in New Jersey, and they always sound like criminals.”

“No, he had a gang tattoo on his neck.”

Belle’s mouth tightened into a tiny circle. “How do you know it was a gang tattoo?”

“Seen it before.”

“Well, just because this is run by a gang, doesn’t mean—”

“All right, so we’ve got an Accord for you.” Tiny Tim stepped in front of them, clapping his hands together. He had ‘IV’ tattooed on the side of his neck in black ink. “Once we take a look at the car, we can tell you what the difference is.”

“How long will this take?” Renard asked, moving his head away from Belle’s hand.

“Shouldn’t take long.” Tiny Tim turned around, watching the mechanics and detailers and people just milling around. “Hey, Vinnie!”

A man carrying a stack of car parts like it was a bag of feathers turned. His hair was so stiff, Belle could have rested a plate on it. “Yeah?”

“You got time to assess their car?”

Vinnie looked at Renard and Belle instead of the car sitting outside, and Belle tried to look as serious as possible. Would it have been better to flutter her eyelashes? She would have to ask Renard.

“Yeah, I can take a look.”

Tiny Tim turned to them, clapping his hands together. “All right. Vin’s going to take care of you guys, so you just chill out over here for a bit. Then we can talk payment.”

He went to talk to Vin, leaving them alone in their corner to watch the flames appear on the Trans Am.

“See that door?” Renard said, pointing to one in the back. There was a red sign that said ‘AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.’

“Yes. Every shop has a door like that,” she said, folding her arms.

“Behind there is where they take the cars apart.”

“You can’t know that.”

“Yes, I can. I can know that this building is much bigger on the outside than it is in here, which means there is a part we cannot see. The only other door is over here, and we can see in that window. That is the office. If we went back there, we would see them taking apart cars. Stolen cars.”

Belle wrinkled her nose. She didn’t want to think about the people whose cars might have been back there, not when Tiny Tim was being so nice. She couldn’t believe that Tiny Tim—who was only about seventeen or eighteen—could do something like that.

“We should get you some more clothes,” she said, looking at his well-tailored slacks and Philadelphia sweatshirt. “You’ll be conspicuous always wearing the same thing.”

“We cannot afford new clothes.”

“Renard.” She shook her head at him. “Of course we can. If we shop right, we can get you enough of a new wardrobe for thirty bucks.”

He looked down at her, brow furrowed. “What? That is ridiculous.”

“We’ll just go to a thrift shop, or a Wal-Mart or something.”

Renard grumbled, muttering something about ‘other people’s clothes’ and ‘cheap fabric,’ but didn’t protest any further. She had already spent more than she should have on the sweatshirt he was wearing, and she could not make that mistake again. 

After half an hour, Vin came out to tell them that their car was ready to be picked up, and that it would cost them six thousand, along with the car they were trading in.

“That car’s running great,” Vin said, pointing to the one Clive had given them. “You’re lucky.”

“Good.” Renard stood, pulling his checkbook out of his pocket. “You will take this check, yes?”

“Yeah, we take checks.” He led them up to the cash register, writing out a receipt for them.

“Good.” Renard leaned down, bracing himself on the counter, and plucked the pen out of Vin’s hand. Belle bit her tongue to keep her scold in. “Who do I make this out to?”

“Carmichael and Murray,” Vin said, his voice a low growl as he watched Renard scribble on the check. “That’s six thousand.”

“Do not cash this check today,” Renard said, ripping it off the pad with a flourish. “Do not cash it tomorrow. Give it two or three days.”

“Excuse me?” Vin leaned back, folding his arms and shifting from foot to foot like he needed an outlet for his fighting energy. “We cash checks the morning after we get them. If your check’s going to bounce, you can bet your sweet ass that we’ll—”

“It will not bounce.” Renard leaned forward, baring his teeth. “We just need some time. We are on our way to Canada.”

“This shop is not fucking changing its—”

“Excuse me,” Belle said, shoving Renard out of the way and leaning on the desk herself. Vin stopped talking and blinked down at her.

“What?”

“We really, really need you to do this for us,” she said, biting her bottom lip up at him. “Our lives depend on it.”

“Sorry, lady, shop policy.”

“Please.” She reached forward, laying her clean hand on his smudged and calloused one. “Please, just wait a day.”

He looked down at his hand, and then between the two of them, and sighed. “Fine. One day.”

Belle squeezed his hand, breaking into a smile. “Thank you so much. You’ve been a huge help, Vin.”

* * *

Driving the Honda was much nicer than driving whatever it was Clive had given them, and Belle took her time finding the Wal-Mart to appreciate it. They stocked up on as much cheap, non-perishable food as they could, as well as clothing essentials for both of them—and one dress for Belle that she couldn’t pass up for only four dollars—and were less than a hundred down by the time they went to fill up the gas tank.

Then, it was off to Baltimore. The drive was short, and Belle let Renard nap in half hour intervals, afraid that he had over-stressed his brain while they were out. Once they got to the city, she woke him up, and he directed her to the hotel.

She had not been expecting a Four Seasons. She had also not been expecting the attached spa.

“Oh my god, this is going to be the nicest hotel I’ve ever stayed in,” she whispered, staring up at it.

“Do not be weird,” Renard said, getting out and getting their suitcase and new tote bag. He’d insisted that they could not bring plastic bags into a Four Seasons, and Belle was now glad that he had made that decision.

“I won’t be weird.” She patted her now-messy bun, considering re-twisting it for their check-in.

“Good.”

They bypassed everyone in the lobby, and Renard made a beeline for the front desk. He rapped on it a few times, and despite his ugly sweatshirt and disheveled appearance, it had an immediate effect on the man running it. He jumped and looked up at them.

“How may I help you, sir?”

“I need to speak with Albert Spencer.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but he’s not—”

Renard leaned forward, baring his teeth. “Now.”

He stared down the clerk, who looked to be just over twenty, and won within seconds. The clerk gulped and reached for a phone.

“Who should I say is calling?”

“Someone he owes a favor.”

Belle didn’t think this tactic would work, but five minutes later saw an older gentleman in a tailored navy suit walking down to greet them.

“We need to speak in private,” Renard said before Albert Spencer could speak.

“Very well. My office is this way.”

It was like being in someone’s well-staffed mansion. Once they were seated in his office, Spencer called room service for a wine and cheese plate, and then sat back.

“So, Renard. I hear you want to call in your favor?”

“Yes.” Renard leaned back, spreading his knees like a challenge. Belle swallowed. “You recall how much you owe me?”

“Yes.” Spencer gritted his teeth together. “Are you planning on cashing in?”

Renard chuckled, and the sound sent unpleasant shivers up Belle’s neck. No one would blame her for thinking he was a terrible villain. “Yes.”

Spencer sighed, opening a desk drawer. “Well, I can get my checkbook, but I don’t have enough in cash—”

“I do not want money.”

He paused, hand on the drawer. “What do you want, then?”

“I need a hotel room, free of charge, for an indefinite period of time.”

“About how long will this ‘indefinite’ period of time be?”

Renard looked at Belle, head cocked to the side.

“No more than a week?” Belle offered.

“At least a week,” Renard said.

“Well, you know that you are always welcome to a free room here,” Spencer said. “As long as you don’t abuse my hospitality. So why are we having this meeting?”

“Because we will not be using my name, and the room is not all.”

“Of course not. I suppose you’d like to know your options?”

“Please.”

Spencer turned to his computer, pulling up some screens and clicking a few things. “All right, I have a suite available on the fifth floor. Non-smoking.”

“That is perfect. Reserve it.”

“Under what name?”

Renard looked at Belle again, and she chewed her lip, trying to think of the most arbitrary name she could. “Judith Freeman and, um—I don’t know, Marshall Todd.”

Spencer paused, fingers over the keyboard. “Judith Freeman?”

“Yes.” Renard leaned back farther. “And Marshall Todd.”

“And I suppose you have more stipulations?”

“Yes. We pay nothing. You will comp anything we charge to our room key, including spa services. You will tell no one our real names. And then you will leave.”

Spencer stopped altogether, turning to look at them. “I’m sorry, you want me to leave?”

“Yes. Take a two week vacation anywhere you want. Go to one of my casinos, tell them you are my guest of honor. I will make sure you are reimbursed for any of your expenses that do not involve gambling.”

Spencer considered this, swirling his mouth around like he was tasting wine. “All right. I’ve always wanted to see the one in Prague.”

“Perfect. This is all, yes?” He turned to Belle, who nodded her agreement.

There was a knock on the door, and a bellhop came in pushing a cart full of wine and cheese. Once he left, Spencer raised the bottle. “Shall we toast our new arrangement?”

Belle accepted her glass when it was poured, even though it was the darkest, thickest red wine she’d ever seen, and she preferred white.

“To old friends,” Spencer said, raising his glass. Renard grunted his agreement and touched his rim to Spencer’s.

“Cheers,” Belle said, taking a sip.

Spencer set his glass down in favor of the cheese plate, preparing himself a cracker with slow, deliberate knife strokes. “I hope you enjoy your secret romantic getaway,” he said, too nonchalant. “I won’t let word get to Elektra.”

Renard put his arm around Belle, running a finger along the edge of her ear. “We will.”

Spencer, nostrils flaring, glanced at Belle as though checking for her approval on any of their statements. All she did was smile, and sip her wine.

* * *

The room was the size of Belle’s flat, and she felt like she was in an amusement park, exploring every nook and cranny the second they walked in.

“Look at how big this bed is!” She rushed into one of the bedrooms, setting her suitcase down there, and gasped. “And there are chocolates on the pillows!”

“You are embarrassing me,” Renard said, taking the other bedroom with his Wal-Mart bags.

“Shut up, no one’s here.” Belle rushed out of her bedroom to look at the kitchen, marveling at the stove and the dishwasher and the full-sized fridge. She’d only ever stayed in hotels with microwaves and mini-fridges.

“I am going to shower,” Renard said. “Try not to break anything.”

As soon as she heard the water turn on, Belle was at the desk phone, chewing her lip. Renard had gotten them free spa services, but she didn’t know if he actually planned on using them. Still, this one was important. She dialed the number for the salon on the card in front of her and waited.

“Seasons of Beauty, how may I help you?”

Belle put on her best American accent. If Judith was Australian, she would stick out like a sore thumb. “Hi, yes, I’d like to make an appointment for a cut and color as soon as possible.”

She managed to get an appointment within the hour, so she took a fast shower while Renard was getting dressed—marveling at the fact that they each had their own bathroom. When she finished, she found him sprawled on the bed in his boxers and socks, watching a UFC fight.

“I’m going out,” she said in her new American accent, and Renard dropped his remote in surprise.

“Where?” He frowned at her, taking in her jeans and blouse. “Are you using a fake accent?”

“Yes. I thought I should try being American so that we’re less identifiable.”

“That is a good plan. Where are you going?”

“To the spa.”

He narrowed his eyes at her for a few seconds, but then shrugged. “It is free. Enjoy yourself.”

She didn’t know where the rest of her nerves were coming from once she had his approval, but she wasn’t going to mention them, so she just nodded and fled the room. She was pleased to see that she wasn’t the least expensively dressed person there—plenty of the people staying were families or young couples who had probably been saving up for this vacation. They would fit in.

Even at the spa, Belle was not alone. There was a group of women her age studying the brochure, trying to plan out the spa package that would give them the most for their money amidst all of the older woman who were laying their credit cards down for the most expensive mud procedures. She made her way through to the salon, where she was greeted with a cup of herbal tea and a plate of cookies. The chair she was led to was comfortable, and the whole area smelled like rosemary and peppermint.

The stylist working on her was named Kenneth, and he had gelled curls that swept over his forehead in an unmoving coif. As soon as Belle sat down, his hands were in her hair like he’d never touched anything like it before.

“I love your curls,” he said, fluffing them up. Belle wanted to close her eyes and relish in the attention—not even Clive ever cared as much about touching her hair as hairdressers did.

“Me too,” she said. “But they need to go.”

“Whatever for?” He ran a hand through the back, arranging it in a little knot.

“Bad breakup,” she said, biting her lip. “It’s time for a big change. I want it short, straight, and blonde.”

“If that’s what you want,” Kenneth said, running his fingers through it.

“Yes.” She nodded, taking one last look at the hair she’d been growing out for years. “That’s what I want.”

* * *

After six hours, the salon was getting ready to close, and Belle deemed her hair blonde enough. Kenneth had cut it up to her shoulders, then straightened it into one sheet. She had a few layers, but she was afraid that any amount of volume would give her away as herself. It was the flattest her hair had ever been.

 Renard hadn’t texted her at all, which worried her a little. She was hungry, too, but room service would deliver until midnight, so she had time. When she got to their suite, she could hear the muffled sounds from his TV, and when she walked into his room, he was asleep.

“Renard.” She walked over, rubbing his shoulder until he snuffled awake.

“I am awake,” he said, struggling upright. “I was not napping.”

“I’m back.” She ran her fingers along the fuzzy stubble growing on his head. “Do you know your name?”

“Victor Zokas. Renard. You are Belle. You—” He cut himself off with a strangled yelp, jumping away from her hand. “What the hell?”

Belle flushed pink. “I, uh—I got a haircut. And color. I thought it would make—”

“Why?”

“—a good disguise.”

He stared at her as if her head had just sprouted razor blades, and she chewed on her lip. The silence stretched, and Belle took a step back, still chewing. “What do you think?”

“That was a good plan.” He settled down, and she felt a little bit like her heart was wilting.

“But you don’t like it?”

“It is fine.” He was looking at the TV again, and he reached for the remote to turn it up.

“This way, no one will recognize me.”

“I said it was a good plan.”

Clenching her teeth together, Belle stalked out of the room as the TV got louder. Who was he to get angry about her hair? It was her hair. She could do whatever she wanted with it, whether it was a good idea or not.

She plopped onto the couch, curling up into the arm. It was not as comfortable as she would have hoped, but it was good enough, and there was a TV in front of it. There was nothing on that she wanted to watch, so she put on the Food Network. She was still hungry.

By the time Renard emerged, still in boxers and socks, silent tears were streaming down Belle’s face, and she was helpless to stop them.

“Belle.” Her name was more of a sigh than anything, and then Renard was shuffling over and sitting next to her. “Do not cry. Please.”

“It’s my hair,” she said, curling into the arm of the couch.

“Yes. It looks nice.” He put his arm behind her on the couch, and it wasn’t quite an invitation to snuggle into him, but Belle took it as one anyway.

“I didn’t want to cut it.”

“I know.”

“Why can’t you just tell me it looks pretty, then?” She scrubbed at her cheeks. “To make me feel better.”

“I am sorry. I was just surprised. It looks pretty.”

“You don’t mean that.”

He let out a growling sigh, then tugged on her hair, forcing her to look up at him. “It looks pretty. I like it. I think the blonde will take some getting used to because it is so bright, but I like it.”

She sniffled, wiping at her eyes again, but the tears kept coming. She gave up after a few more attempts to stop and just buried her face in Renard’s bare chest. She deserved this cry—she hadn’t had one at all—and Renard needed the cry, because he certainly wasn’t going to do it himself.

“This feels weird,” he said, patting her back. “Your face is wet, can’t you just cry into the couch? Or get a tissue—I will get you a tissue.”

“I’m hungry,” she said, pressing her face into his skin.

“I will order room service.” He all but leapt off the couch. “I will get the menu.” He tripped over his feet rushing to find it, and a bubble of laughter broke through her sobs.

She calmed down by the time dinner arrived, though Renard had to be the one to get it from the door. Belle curled up in his bed to wait for him, eyes watering a little more when she saw the bottle of white wine tucked under his arm.

“You’re spoiling me,” she said, pulling the comforter up to her waist.

“It is free. We should take advantage of that.”

He set the tray on the nightstand and poured two glasses before getting into bed. While Belle had gone for the most exotic thing on the menu—a Greek salad with grilled octopus—Renard had gone for the most expensive. His lobster tail was huge, and Belle intended to help him eat it.

“To our survival,” Renard said, raising his glass.

“To justice.” She touched hers to the side of his, then took a sip. They were far from justice, but at least they were on their way.

* * *

Sergei knew that Belle often wore the blue lace dress, so when he spotted it hung over a chair, he grabbed it. Just in case, he also grabbed some underwear, and then he was back in the car. On his way to the hospital, he picked up some paninis from a bistro he liked, in flavors that he hoped Belle liked, and then sped the rest of the way.

Renard had made a serious error. Belle was clever—naïve and trusting, but clever—and if he had kept up his ruse, she would have gone anywhere with him. By running, all he’d done was make Sergei look that much better, and cement his innocence in Belle’s mind.

He was playing a dangerous game now, it was sure, because the seed of doubt had been planted, but he was going to crush it beneath his expensive loafers before it could even grow into a sprout. With Belle tentatively on his side, he had two options—force her to work for him and support him unconditionally, or kill her. It was impossible to force Belle to do anything, and it had taken him weeks to even get her to come to terms with framing Renard, so that was out if she was already skeptic. Killing her was the best option, and to ensure that it was done properly, he would have to do it himself this time.

“Shit,” he said, swerving onto the exit ramp. He couldn’t kill her. He couldn’t kill her before, and he certainly couldn’t now, not after he’d gone out of his way to cater to her every need. Sergei didn’t do things like that, not for anyone, but he had done it for Belle and he knew that he would do it again to make sure she was on his side.

He’d send her someplace safe, then. Somewhere remote and far off—maybe an island so that she could have a well-deserved vacation. He’d give her false ID papers, create a back story, and maybe even send her father with her. Then, once Renard was dead and everything had blown over, he’d give her the evidence of his success and heroism, and she would come running back to him.

The hospital was close to the highway, and he pulled into the parking lot with a jaunty tilt to his lips. Belle would be his, and then everything would go back to normal. She would hate his brother as much as she always had, if not more, and when Sergei killed him, she would be pleased.

“I’m here to pick up Belle French,” he told the desk clerk when he couldn’t find her in the waiting room.

“One moment,” she said, turning to a computer.

He tapped his fingers along the counter, waiting for whatever he’d have to sign. She would be pleased that he had brought a dress she liked. She would be pleased with him in general.

“There’s no one here named Belle French.”

He frowned, turning back to the woman. “What about Annabelle French?”

She scanned her computer, then shook her head. “I can check to see if she’s checked out recently.”

“Yes.”

She watched her screen for a full minute, typing and clicking various fields, and Sergei tried to see what she was doing. After a bit, her head started to swing back and forth until she turned to him, shaking it.

“There’s been no one here named Belle or Annabelle French in the past week.”

Sergei’s arms felt hot, and he itched to squeeze something—but he couldn’t kill a hospital attendant in public. Even he had standards. “How about Victor Zokas?”

It took her about five seconds to look him up, and then she smiled. “Yep! Just checked out this morning.”

“When?”

“At 10:16.”

Just before Belle had called. He slammed his palm on the counter, and the woman behind it jumped.

“Thank you,” he said through clenched teeth, and she calmed a fraction. Before he could draw any more attention to himself, he strode out, feeling like he was breathing fire through his nose. He may not have known what really happened, but he knew that Belle had betrayed him—and no one betrayed Sergei Karpovich.


	8. Chapter 8

“There’s still one thing I’d like to know,” Belle said, brushing croissant flakes off the map in front of her.

“Just one?” He looked up, setting a map down and raising an eyebrow. They’d been mapping and charting and note-taking for two hours, and it was all starting to look like a jumbled mess—but Belle was confident.

“For now.”

“What is it?”

“If you and Sergei are brothers, and you don’t have the same last name, that must mean that one of them is fake. So which one is it? It’s his, right? Because he’s the criminal?” She leaned forward, fingers poised above her keyboard. ‘Sergei Zokas’ had a nice ring to it—much better than Victor Karpovich.

“They’re both fake.”

“What?” She frowned, looking up from the screen. “What do you mean? Why are they both fake?”

“We both decided that _Kapylyushny_ would ruin us in America, so we both changed it.” Renard shrugged, pushing out from the table to stand up.

“Cap—ee—can you say that again?”

“No.” He walked over to the fridge and swung it open. “I never want to hear it again.”

“Why’d you move to America?”

“Fresh start.” He turned to her and raised the bottle of white wine. “Wine?”

“Yes, please. What was your family like?”

“Is this part of your investigation?”

“No, just curious.”

He set the full glass down in front of her a little harder than necessary, and her wine almost sloshed over the rim. “My mother was a seamstress, but she died giving birth to our younger brother.”

Belle choked on the sip of wine she’d just taken. “You have a younger brother?”

“Yes, Mikhail, and he is dead, too.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” She bit her lip. “How long ago was it?”

“Ten years? Maybe fifteen, I am not sure.”

“How?”

Renard let out a growling sigh. “Okay, fine, I will tell you my life story, but I am only going to tell you once, and you can never ask me about it again, and you also cannot look at me like that, do you understand?” He pointed at her, and she pressed her lips together while she nodded. “Good. You better not take notes. Are you ready?”

“Yes.” She sat back in her chair so that her fingers were nowhere near the keyboard, and took a sip of her wine. “Go ahead.”

“So, my father was a criminal, and an asshole. He married my mother when she got pregnant with me, and then a little over two years later, they had Sergei, and then five years after that, they had Mikhail. My mother died, and my father had to raise us, and he was terrible. He was aggressive and usually drunk.

“Sergei and I never got along, unless it came to my father, and both of us hated Mikhail, because he was a shithead.”

“Renard, I feel like you’re leaving out—”

“I am telling the story, am I not?” He took a gulp of wine. “You should be happy you are even hearing it at all.”

“I’m very happy. What kind of criminal was your father?”

“Eh, he was a thief, and he sometimes worked for the mob. He always had a different job, too.  He used to take me and Sergei with him when he robbed places as lookouts. Since Sergei was younger, it was his job to stub his toe and cry if my father was about to get caught. He never wanted to do it, but I was older, so he had to—what face are you making right now, Belle?”

“Nothing! I’m not making a face!” She hurried to school her horrified gape into a more stoic expression, but all she could really do was cover her mouth with her hands.

“That is it, I am done. Story is over.” He started to stand up, draining his wine glass. Belle groped for him across the table.

“No, no, finish, please! I’m done making faces, I swear!”

He sat back down, watching her like he didn’t trust her at all, and she pressed her lips together.

“Fine. My father died when I was twenty—drank himself to death—and Mikhail died when he was eighteen, I believe. But he was always the crazy one. Grew up with no mother, raised by two idiots and their father, you know.” He shrugged. “He was drunk and drove a stolen car into a lake.”

“Oh my god.” Belle clapped a hand to her mouth. Renard ignored her.

“The only time Sergei and I ever really agreed on anything was when we decided to leave. We both knew we would die if we stayed in St. Petersburg, so we worked together to get our boat tickets. We actually worked together here for a year, in a shipping yard, but we got fired for fighting too much.”

“You came here on a boat?”

“Yes. It was, eh—” He rocked his hand back and forth, considering. “A bit illegal. A big fishing boat. He makes the voyage twice a year. We got our citizenship when we worked at the docks.”

“Where did you start making your fortune?”

“Selling guns.” He leaned back in his chair, arms folded, speculating the ceiling. “We knew all about guns from our days of crime in Russia, and we used to sell them on the black market. Then, I got my license and became legitimate. Once I could afford it, I took some business classes, and started trading on Wall Street. Then I bought my first casino.”

“And Sergei?”

“Most of his money was from drugs and prostitution—selling prostitutes, I mean, not being one. He was a loan shark, too. He did enough stock trading to make his fortune look legitimate, but I think this business is relatively new.”

“We started seeing women that fit the same profile about a year and a half ago,” she said, leaning forward to make some notes now that the personal part of Renard’s story was finished. “Either his business was small before, or that was when they started getting out.”

“Having a loyal employee like you probably helped get it started.”

Belle froze, fingers poised over the keyboard. “You think I helped?”

“He knew he could trust you—and more importantly, he knew you trusted him. You would never believe it of him, and you would make sure no one else did, either.”

“I don’t want to talk about how stupid I was,” she said, turning back to the computer.

“Do not feel bad. My own fiancée managed to have an affair with my brother and plan my death at the same time, and I never noticed.”

“We were blinded by affection.”

“Something like that. Let me see the binder.”

Belle passed it over, studying her notes and the maps. There had to be a clue in the information they had. There was no way that Sergei had managed to fake everything so convincingly—Belle was confident enough in her own intelligence to think that he would have had to use something authentic for her to believe it. Sergei may have thought she was a love-struck idiot when it came to him, but he knew she was shrewd in other walks of life.

Renard slammed his fist on the table, and Belle almost knocked the laptop off in her surprise.

“What’s wrong? Are you—”

“I have a lead.” He bared his teeth like a wolf about to play with its food, and smacked his hand on the table again—with less force this time.

“You do?” She almost fell over in her haste to get out of her chair and over to him to look at the binder in his lap.

“Right here.” He pointed to the profile of a bald man in a suit walking on a sidewalk in front of a beauty parlor and convenience store. Renard was in the photo, too, but Belle could see where he was cut in now, where the shading wasn’t quite right. She needed to study photo-editing more.

“Okay. Who am I looking at?”

“Representative Cody Mills, from Albany.”

Belle wrinkled her nose. “Who?”

“A small-time politician, who, if he does not play his cards right, is about to have a big time scandal.”

* * *

Their plan made Belle feel like they were about to walk right off a cliff—there was a lot of solid ground, but as soon as they hit a certain point, it was going to be gone, replaced with murky waters and sharp rocks.  Everything to the point where they would confront the representative was perfect, but after that, they would be floundering around again and praying that everything went how they wanted it to.

The next three days were spent with Belle forcing Renard to stay as immobile as possible so that his head would be healed as much as it could be. They went over the details as much as they could, but all it was doing by then was making them anxious, so Belle took to the spa. She got a facial, a manicure, another massage—and the masseuse remarked on the tension she’d managed to build up between massages while on vacation—and spent more of the owner’s money in the gift shop than she should have when they had limited space.

Their plan required her to look important, though, so the Givenchy dress she’d gotten wasn’t just an impulse purchase, and neither was the set of citrine drop earrings and matching necklace.

For their last meal on their last night, they each had lobster. Breakfast the next day would be all protein, and even Renard agreed.

“Goodbye, Four Seasons,” Belle whispered, clutching her suitcase handle and staring up at the building like a farewell montage in a film.

“Come on.” Renard put a hand on her back and pushed her toward the car. He was back in his suit—pressed and laundered by the hotel staff—and wearing a cologne that made Belle want to bury her nose in his neck and hide.

“You look nice,” she said, letting him guide her away.

“Yes.” He kept his hand between her shoulder blades, looking forward with his jaw set. “As do you.”

“Thank you.” She’d acquired a chestnut skirt suit as well as the dress, and she’d have liked it much better if she wasn’t a blonde now. Maybe she’d become a redhead soon.

When Renard tried to get in the driver’s seat, Belle stepped in front and glared up at him.

“What are you doing?” he asked, somehow getting taller to loom over her. She leaned back to accommodate his new height, but didn’t move.

“I’m getting in my seat.”

“What are you talking about? I am driving.”

“No, you definitely are not.” She crossed her arms. “I drove just fine before.”

“Yes, but I was injured then, and now I am not, so I will drive.”

“I’m driving.”

“Belle, I am the man here, and I—”

Belle raised an eyebrow, like she was daring him to finish that sentence, and he pressed his lips together.

“I’m driving,” she said.

“Okay.”

She let him choose the radio station, and he switched between classic rock and classical as they drove down the highway. When they were half an hour away, they pulled over to a rest area with a payphone, and Renard got out to make the phone call. He tried to stand so that Belle could hear as well, but when the representative picked up, his voice was too soft.

“Mills, it is Renard.”

Belle gave up, and just stood and watched. Renard looked to be in his element, leaning against a wall in his tailored suit, making a business call.

“Have lunch with me today.” Renard waited, ignoring the way Belle stood on her toes and chewed her lip. “It was not a request, Cody. You will want to clear your schedule and meet with me, I promise you—something like that—trust me, you will regret it if you do not come see me today—yes, it is a threat—good, I will see you in an hour at Marco’s. Alone.”

He hung up the phone, and turned to put Belle out of her misery with his wolf grin. “We are on. Let’s go.”

The restaurant he directed her to was a small, Italian place with outdoor seating and a lot of people in suits. They got there early, and Renard had the waiter seat them at a small table in a darkened corner, where the noise from the kitchen, the radio, and surrounding tables would cover up most of what they were saying. Belle had a notebook ready.

“Are we a couple here?” she asked, sipping at her water.

“No. There is no need.”

“How do you know him anyway?”

“We play poker together.”

She looked sideways at him, and the suggestion of a grin on his face told her that he was pleased to have surprised her. “Is it an underground poker game?”

“Yes. With the Russian mob.”

“I thought you didn’t want to be in the mob?”

“Playing poker with the mob is not being in the mob.”

“It’s a bit close for com—”

“He’s here.” He jerked his chin to the door, and Belle turned around to look.

Cody Mills was even more slight in person than he looked in the photos, with a suit that hung on him and thick glasses. He walked in like he was torn between owning his space and making himself invisible, so it was sort of a half-slink, half-stride, and it was only when his eyes landed on Belle that he straightened up.

“He is disgusting,” Renard murmured, leaning back in his chair. Belle turned back to the table in silent agreement, meeting the representative’s eyes with cool disinterest.

“Renard.” He sat, nodding his greeting. “And…?”

“Lacey,” Renard said, and Belle forced herself not to look surprised. They had not discussed using her fake name.

“Pleasure to meet you, Lacey.” He held his hand out, but she did not shake it. Who knew where it had been?

“By the way,” Renard said, signaling to the waiter, “you are paying.”

“I’m sorry?” Mills looked over at him, eyebrows drawn together. “You invited—”

“You do not get to negotiate.”

“What is this about, man? I don’t understand—”

“I am ready to order.”

Mills huffed, looking down at the menu. In the half an hour that they’d been there, Belle and Renard had already decided, so this gave her the opportunity to glare at the politician. He glanced up every few seconds, and eventually shifted his chair so that his body was only facing Renard.

The conversation before their food arrived was strained, and fizzled out every few sentences until they all lapsed into silence. Belle was sure that the surrounding tables could feel the tension emanating, and all she could do was hope that they wouldn’t hear anything when they got down to business.

“Are you going to tell me what this is about now?” Mills asked the second the waiter left.

“We have some photos of you,” Renard said.

“Lots of people have photos of me.” Mills shrugged, fork poised over his spaghetti. “What of it?”

“Photos of you leaving a brothel.”

“A brothel? Please, Renard, this is America. We don’t—”

“A brothel full of underage foreign girls who were kidnapped from their homes and forced into prostitution,” Belle said, and she couldn’t remember anyone ever cowering quite as much under the force of her glare.

“Coincidence,” Mills said. “I didn’t know such a place existed.”

“That is bullshit,” Renard said, pointing his fork at him. “And if you want us to get more pictures to prove it, we can.”

“There is nothing you can prove.”

“Do you want to test that theory?”

Mills looked between the two of them, and then set down his silverware. “All right. What do you want? Money? This is going to be a one-time thing, Renard. You will not hold this over my head for the rest of my life.”

“We would never do that, because we’re not terrible—” Belle started, cutting off when Renard laid a hand on her leg. She swallowed, looking down at her untouched lunch.

“We don’t want money,” he said, leaning forward.

“What do you want then? Connections? My political support?”

“Information.”

Mills looked between them again, and Belle was ready to lunge across the table at him. Instead, she reached for her purse and her notebook.

“What kind of information?”

“Everything you know about the brothel. Is there more than one? Who runs it? I want addresses, I want names, everything.”

“I don’t know,” Mills said, shrugging. “I just know how it works.”

“How does it work?”

Belle swallowed, keeping her eyes on her notebook. She could handle this. She knew plenty of horror stories, from women she’d spoken to and men she’d helped get caught, and she could handle this pasty politician telling her.

“You really want to know?” Mills asked.

“Yes.”

“Well, there was a woman, and she would set up the appointments. You go to her, tell her what you want, and she set it up. It’s a hundred for your basic package—”

“Basic package?”

“Yeah, a regular housebroken girl with no bruises.”

Belle’s throat clenched, and she pressed her pen into the paper so hard, it almost broke. How could anyone be so blasé about people like this?

“If she had bruises, it was seventy-five. If you gave her bruises, you pay a fifty dollar damage fee. It’s five hundred for a virgin.”

Belle choked, and the man looked over at her. Her whole face felt hot, and she wanted to vomit and cry and punch something at the same time.

“Is she all right?”  he asked Renard.

“You—you are disgusting,” she said, eyes brimming. “How can you just sit there and be so calm? I mean— _housebroken_? Scum like you are the reason that people like me have to have jobs like I do, and I can’t—”

“Lacey,” Renard said, squeezing her leg under the table.

“—believe that you have so little decency, that you don’t even consider these women human beings. They’re just _dogs_ to you, and sometimes they don’t even get that status. You pay damage fees! How can you put a price on—”

“ _Lacey_ , I need to talk to you. Outside,” Renard said, raising his voice. Before Belle could protest, he had his chair pushed out and was pulling her out of hers, leading her away amidst stares.

“It’s not fair,” she said when they were out, folding her arms like a petulant child and ignoring the tears spilling over. “He shouldn’t get to go free just because he can help us. He doesn’t deserve to get the easy end of the deal.”

“I know.” He took hold of her shoulders. “But you have to calm down, Belle, or—”

“Why can’t we just tell the news about his scandal? They’ll blow it up, and then the FBI will be onto Sergei, and they’ll find him and we don’t have to.”

“We cannot do that.”

“Why not? If we take this route, then everyone who deserves retribution gets it. How can you listen to that man with such a straight face? He doesn’t deserve our mercy, Renard, and we don’t owe anything to him, even if he tells us—”

“I have to listen to him, Belle, because he is the key to everything we need. We are already close to getting what we want.”

“No, we’re not! He said he doesn’t know anything, Renard, he just knew how it worked, and—”

“Belle—Belle, shh—look at me, Belle, look at me.” He cupped her cheeks in his palms, forcing her chin up. She wouldn’t meet his eyes, and for what seemed like forever, he just held her face and waited—but then, he swiped a thumb across one of her tears, and she looked at him without meaning to.

“What?” she asked.

“He knows.”

“What?”

“He knows everything.” He wiped off another tear, and she sniffled.

“How do you know?”

“Look, we cannot tip anyone off about this scandal, because as soon as it gets to the news, Sergei will go to his backup plan, and he will be even more difficult to catch. I promise you that Mills will get what he deserves, even if it is not immediate. He knows more than he is telling us, and I am going to find out what it is, I swear it.”

The pressure of his hands and the force of his conviction calmed her, and she brought a hand up to rest on the crook of his elbow. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay. I can do this. Everything will be fine.”

“Yes. Everything will be.” Renard bent down and pressed hips lips to her forehead, then released her cheeks and started back for the restaurant.

Belle, brows drawn together, hurried after him. “Did you just kiss me on the head?”

Renard froze, pivoting slowly on the balls of his feet to look at her. His eyes darted around, and his brow was drawn. “No,” he said after a few seconds, pivoting back. “Of course not.”

“Renard, you can’t say ‘no,’ I was right here when it—”

“Come on, do not waste time. We have to go back.” He pushed the door open, barely waiting for Belle to scurry after him before letting go.

She could still feel the sticky imprint of his lips as they sat down, and she longed to touch her skin where the edge of his kiss would be, but they had an asshole to interrogate, and she was not about to compromise the situation again.

* * *

Back on the highway, Belle couldn’t decide whether or not she was excited or disgusted. On one hand, they had two pages full of names, addresses, and pieces of information that Mills thought might come in handy—but on the other, they now knew how depraved the whole business was.

“Do we have somewhere to go?” Renard asked, squinting at a map of New Jersey to try and find some of the addresses there.

“Yes. We’re heading to Allentown.”

“Allentown?” He looked over, eyebrows drawn. “What for?”

“I have a place where we can stay and plan our next move, now that we know what we’re doing.”

“And what are we doing?”

“I don’t know, we’ll have to plan that.”

Renard shook his head. “I wish we could know that we had the upper hand, instead of just hoping. It would make all of this driving much less stressful.”

“I think we have the upper hand as long as we stay hidden, and make sure to keep our contacts quiet. Sending Spencer to your casino was a good move, and so was making sure that Mills knew we would go to the news as soon as he told anyone about our meeting.”

“I suppose you are right. When did you get so happy?”

“When I decided that karma was going to slap him in the face soon.”

Renard frowned, shifting to look at her. “You’re not going to help it along, are you?”

“Nope. Don’t need to.” She smiled out at the traffic. “When we save all those girls, some of them are going to need a lot of help, but others are going to be angry, and they’re going to remember the men who abused them, and they’re going to do foolish things like smash their cars in with baseball bats.”

“I think you went crazy in there.”

“I think you should take a nap.”

He sunk down a little in his seat, eyeing her sideways. “If I do, you will still be taking us to Allentown, yes? You are not going to take a crazy revenge detour?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Renard. Go to sleep.”

He didn’t sleep, and Belle supposed she didn’t blame him. Even if he had napped, she would still have driven to the same upper class suburban neighborhood with houses that had BMWs and Mercedes in their driveways.

“So where are we?” he asked, sitting up and frowning out the window.

“I have a friend here. I should warn—no, you know what, I’m not going to warn you, you’ll be fine.”

“What? What do you need to warn me about?” He sat up, glaring at her now. “Tell me.”

“Can you carry the bags? I’m going to park down the street just in case.”

“Tell me.”

She didn’t, and Renard sulked about it the entire walk down the street, and only stopped sulking when he saw the shiny blue Jaguar parked out front.

“Whose house is this?” he whispered as Belle knocked.

The door opened to reveal a young woman, taller than both of them and as bulky as Renard, wearing pajamas and a tank top. In one hand, she held the doorknob, and in the other, an open bottle of Jack Daniels.

“Hey, Belle. You bringing me a battered woman?” She looked Renard up and down, nose wrinkled.

“Hi. Sorry to just show up at your door, but we need a place to stay.”

“Sure thing. I see you went blonde for the summer.”  

“Yeah, something like that.” Belle waved a hand. “Also, this is Renard. Renard, this is Avery.”

Avery let go of the door to offer him her black-nailed hand, and he shook it, staring at her like he was trying to wilt her. “Your friend’s a little weird,” she said, stepping back to let them in. “But, here’s the deal. You can both stay, but he can’t have his own room.”

“Don’t you need to ask your parents for permission or something?” Renard asked, folding his arms. Belle elbowed him in the side.

Avery took a swig from her bottle. “This is my house. I inherited it when my grandfather died, and I live in it alone.”

“If you live in it alone, then why do I not get my own room?”

“Because I have some girls staying with me, and this is supposed to be a man-free zone. They need to know that they’re safe, and they’ll trust Belle to keep you in check. There’s two of them right now, and they’re only eighteen, so I’m not about to compromise their well-being just because you can’t be a gentleman and sleep on the floor.”

“We can share a room, that’s fine, and I won’t make him sleep on the floor,” Belle said before Renard could growl something else.

“Cool. You can take the master, then.”

“Why do you not have the master bedroom?” Renard asked, following as Avery led them to the stairs.

She paused, taking another swig of Jack, and turned around. “Why would I need the master bedroom? Do I look married?”

Renard blinked at Belle in confusion, but she just shrugged and followed Avery up the stairs. Even though she knew that they were bound to meet the girls staying with Avery, she tried not to think about how both of them were eighteen. She could cross that bridge when she came to it.

“Here.” Avery flung open a door, revealing a bedroom and connecting bath as big as their hotel suite.

“Thank you,” Renard said, pushing past both of them to set the suitcase and tote down.

Avery hung back, inching closer to Belle while she watched Renard study his surroundings. “So, what’s going on?” she asked, voice low.

“It’s a long story, and I can’t tell you all of it just in case, but we’re sort of on the run,” Belle said. Renard looked up at her, nodding his approval, and she just barely refrained from rolling her eyes.

“From your creepster boss?” Avery asked.

Belle looked down at her, eyebrows drawn together. “Yeah, how’d you know?”

Avery was still watching Renard, and she took a small sip from the bottle in her hand. “Wild guess.” She turned to Belle, face softening a little as she looked her up and down. “Can you cook while you’re here?”

“What?”

“Come on. You know I can’t, and we’re getting tired of take-out.”

“Where’s your maid?”

“On leave for a month because her sister just had a baby and her husband left her alone with it.”

“Fine. Renard, I’m going to check out the fridge, okay?”

“I’m coming.” Renard, suit jacket and tie gone, loped out of the room, and Avery shook her head at him.

“Come on, boy, the kitchen is this way,” she said, whistling to him like a dog. Renard growled, but followed after them since he didn’t have much other choice.

A door opened to the side, and Avery ignored it, so Belle tried to as well—but none of them could ignore the muffled screams that came from the door. It slammed shut, two girls disappearing behind it, and all three of them exchanged looks.

“What was that about?” Avery asked, looking at Belle with narrowed eyes, but Belle was watching Renard—who looked like a deer caught in a gun barrel—with unfocused eyes.

“Avery, what happened to those girls?” she asked.

Avery shrugged. “Don’t know. I never ask. They don’t want to be asked. Besides, they don’t really speak much English.”

Belle pressed her lips together, because now was not the time to smile, but she couldn’t contain herself. “Renard, they think you’re Sergei.”

He frowned, rubbing his neck after he jerked to look at her. “What?”

“They think you’re Sergei, Renard!”

His eyes widened, and he stepped closer, pointing to himself. “I look like Sergei. I can pass for Sergei.”

“You can pass for Sergei!”

“What is going on?” Avery asked, folding her arms. “Can someone please tell me?”

“We’ve just acquired a new advantage,” Belle said, starting to feel like things were looking up.


End file.
